UC-NRLF 


B    M    0^7    Ifl3 


THE 

SERVANT 
IN  THE  HOUSE 


CHARLES 

RANN 
KENNEDY 


GIFT   ©F 
Mrs.   W.  W.   Kemp 


7J 


MANSON 


THE 

SERVANT 

IN   THE   HOUSE 

BY 

CHARLES    RANN    KENNEDY 

ILLUSTRATED  WITH   PORTRAITS  OF 
THE     CHARACTERS     IN     THE      PLAY 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

NEW   YORK    AND    LONDON 

THE  PLAY  PUBLISHED  IN  THIS  VOLUME  IS 
COPYRIGHTED  AS  A  DRAMATIC  COMPOSITION. 
STAGE  AND  PLATFORM  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


BOOKS  BY 
CHARLES    RANN    KENNEDY 


SEVEN  PLAYS  FOR  SEVEN  PLAYERS 

Volumes  now  ready: 

THE   WINTERFEAST 

THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

THE   IDOL-BREAKER 

THE   RIB   OF   THE   MAN 

SHORTER  PLAYS   FOR  SMALL  CASTS 

Volumes  now  ready: 

THE   TERRIBLE   MEEK 
THE   NECESSARY   EVIL 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK 


Copyright,  1908,  by  CHARLES  RANN  KENNEDY. 


PRINTED    !N   THE   UNITED   ! 

c-u 


Ifl 


TO 

WALTER   HAMPDEN 

"There's  a  lot  o*  brothers 
knockin'  abaht  as  people 
don't  know  on,  eh  what  ? 
See  wot  I  mean  ?" 


M199630 


"He  that  saith  he  is  in  the  light ';  and  hateth  his 
brother,  is  in  darkness  even  until  now.  He  that 
loveth  his  brother  abideth  in  the  light,  and  there  is 
none  occasion  of  stumbling  in  him.  But  he  that 
hateth  his  brother  is  in  darkness,  and  walketh  in 
darkness  and  knoweth  not  whither  he  goeth,  because 
that  darkness  hath  blinded  his  eyes.  .  .  .  If  a  man 
say,  I  love  God,  and  hateth  his  brother,  he  is  a  liar: 
for  he  that  loveth  not  his  brother  whom  he  hath  seen, 
how  can  he  love  God  whom  he  hath  not  seen  ?" 

— I.  JOHN,  ii.  9-1 1  j  iv.  20. 

"The  hunger  for  brotherhood  is  at  the  bottom  of 
the  unrest  of  the  modern  civilized  world.'9 

— GEORGE  FREDERICK  WATTS. 


ORIGINAL  CAST  OF  CHARACTERS 

IN 

THE  SERVANT  IN  THE  HOUSE 

BY 

CHARLES    RANN    KENNEDY 

AS   PRESENTED  BY 

THE  HENRY  MILLER  ASSOCIATE  PLAYERS 

AT 

THE    SAVOY    THEATRE,    NEW    YORK 
ON  MONDAY,  MARCH  23,  1908 

A  PLAY  OF  THE  PRESENT  DAY,  IN  FIVE  ACTS,  SCENE  INDIVIDABLE 
SETTING  FORTH  THE  STORY  OF  ONE  MORNING  IN  THE  EARLYSPRING 


PERSONS   IN   THE   PLAY 

JAMES  PONSONBY   MAKESHYFTE,  D.D.,  The  Most  Reverend, 

The  Lord  Bishop  of  Lancashire    ...      Mr.  ARTHUR    LEWIS 
THE  REVEREND   WILLIAM  SMYTHE,  Vicar, 

Mr.  CHARLES   DALTON 
AUNTIE,  the  Vicar's  Wife    .    Miss  EDITH  WYNNE  MATTHISON 

MARY,  their  niece Miss  MABEL  MOORE 

MR.  ROBERT    SMITH,  a  gentleman  of  necessary  occupation, 

Mr.  TYRONE  POWER 

ROGERS,  a  page-boy Mr.  GALWEY  HERBERT 

MANSON,  a  butler Mr.  WALTER  HAMPDEN 

Time — An  early  morning  in  Spring. 
Place — An  English  country  vicarage. 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

MANSON „  frontispiece 

THE    MOST    REVEREND    THE     LORD     BISHOP   .      .  Facing  p.    22 

THE   VICAR ,      .      *      .      .  "            38 

AUNTIE "            56 

MARY "            70 

ROBERT "            86 

ROGERS "         IO2 

THE    SERVANT   IN  THE    HOUSE.      ACT  IV.    ,  "         126 


The  portraits  of  the  characters  in  the  play 
have  been  reproduced  from  photographs 
made  for  the  book  by  Miss  Alice  Boughton. 


CHARACTERS     REPRESENTED 

JAMES  PONSONBY  MAKESHYFTE,  D.D. 
The  Most  Reverend  the  Lord  Bishop  of  Lancashire 

THE  REVEREND  WILLIAM  SMYTHE 
The  Vicar 

AUNTIE 
The  Vicar's  Wife 

MARY 
Their  niece 

MR.  ROBERT  SMITH 
A  gentleman  of  necessary  occupation 

ROGERS 
A  page-boy 

MANSON 
A  butler 

TIME:    Now 
PLACE:    Here 


THE    SCENE 

The  scene,  which  remains  unchanged  throughout  the 
play,  is  a  room  in  the  vicarage.  Jacobean  in  character, 
its  oak-panelling  and  beamed-ceiling,  together  with  some 
fine  pieces  of  antique  furniture,  lend  it  an  air  of  historical 
interest,  whilst  in  all  other  respects  it  speaks  of  solid  com 
fort,  refinement,  and  unostentatious  elegance.  Evidently 
the  room  of  a  rich  man,  who  has,  however,  apparently  come 
to  some  compromise  on  the  difficult  question  of  his  entrance 
into  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven;  for  the  panelled  walls  possess, 
among  other  decorations,  a  richly  ornamented  crucifix,  a  Vir 
gin  and  Child  by  an  old  master,  certain  saints  in  ecstasy, 
and  a  really  remarkable  modern  oil-painting  of  the  Divine 
Author  of  our  religion. 

The  main  door  of  the  room  is  at  the  back  of  the  stage, 
somewhere  towards  the  middle;  it  opens  upon  a  hall,  at 
the  further  side  of  which  one  may  perceive,  through  the 
open  door  of  another  room,  a  goodly  collection  of  well- 
bound  and  learned-looking  volumes — the  vicar's  library. 
At  the  present  moment  these  tomes  of  wisdom  are  inac 
cessible,  as  the  library  door  is  blocked  up  with  unsightly 
mounds  of  earth,  sewer-pipes,  and  certain  workmen's  im 
plements.  The  fact  is,  the  vicarage  has  been  greatly  dis- 

[13] 


THE    SERVANT    IN    THE    HOUSE 

turbed  of  late,  owing  to  a  defect  in  the  drainage — an  un 
savory  circumstance  which  receives  further  and  regretful 
explication  in  the  play  itself. 

Returning,  then,  to  the  room,  one  may  see,  in  addition  to 
the  main  door  described  above,  another  door,  to  the  right 
of  stage,  and  near  to  the  audience.  The  curious  may  be 
glad  to  learn  that  this  leads  into  a  drawing-room,  and  in 
cidentally  affords  one  more  means  of  communication  with 
the  house.  Another  exit  is  provided  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  stage  [left],  where  a  couple  of  lofty  French  windows 
lead  out  into  the  garden.  Above  the  drawing-room  door 
is  a  fine  old  Jacobean  mantel-piece :  a  fire  burns  brightly  in 
the  grate.  To  the  left  of  the  main  door  at  the  back  is  a  long, 
low,  mullioned  window,  through  which  one  may  see  a  blue 
sky,  a  thatched  top  or  two  of  cottages,  and  the  gray  old 
tower  of  the  church.  Through  the  French  windows  are 
seen  a  gravel-walk,  a  lawn,  trees,  and  a  sun-dial. 

Of  the  essential  furniture  of  the  scene,  there  may  be 
mentioned:  sideboard  to  right  of  main  door;  table,  right- 
centre  of  stage,  with  chairs;  arm-chair  by  fireplace;  settee, 
left,  towards  front;  and  a  long  oak  stool  in  the  window. 

The  various  properties  are  described  or  implied  in  the 
text  of  the  play. 


THE     FIRST     ACT 


THE     SERVANT     IN 
THE     HOUSE 

THE  FIRST  ACT 

As  the  curtain  ascends,  Rogers  and  Manson  are  discov 
ered  laying  the  table  for  breakfast,  the  lad  being  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  table,  facing  the  audience,  Manson,  with 
his  back  to  the  audience,  being  at  the  lower  end.  Rogers 
is  an  ordinary  little  cockney  boy  in  buttons;  Manson  is 
dressed  in  his  native  Eastern  costume.  His  face  is  not  seen 
until  the  point  indicated  lower  down. 

ROGERS  [glancing  across  curiously].  Arskin'your 
pardon,  Mr.  Manson.  .  .  . 

MANSON.  Yes:   what  is  it,  Rogers? 

ROGERS.  Funny  thing — cawn't  get  it  out  of  my 
'ead  as  I've  knowed  you  somewhere  before.  Don't 
scarcely  seem  possible,  do  it,  Mr.  Manson  ? 

MANSON.  Many  things  are  possible  in  this  world, 
Rogers. 

ROGERS.  That's  all  right;  but  'ow  long  'av'  you 
been  in  England,  Mr.  Manson  ? 


IN  THE   HOUSE 


MANSON.  I  landed  late  last  night,  if  that's  what 
you  mean. 

ROGERS.  Well,  I  never  been  in  the  continong  of 
Asia,  where  you  come  from;   and  there  you  are! 
MANSON  [quietly].  Yes:   here  I  am. 

[He  goes  to  the  sideboard  and  busies 
himself  with  serviettes,  mats,  etc.] 
ROGERS.  Perhaps  it's  this  reincarnytion  the  Daily 
Mail  been  writing  about.     Ever  see  the  Daily  Mail 
out  there,  Mr.  Manson  ? 

MANSON.  No:  we  had  few  advantages. 
ROGERS.  Rum   idea,  reincarnytion!     Think,   Mr. 
Manson,   perhaps   we   wos   lords    once    in    ancient 
Babylon,  you  an'  me! 

MANSON.  And  now  butler  and  page-boy,  eh  ? 
ROGERS  [scratching  his  head].  Does  seem  a  bit  of 
a  come-down,  don't  it  ? 

MANSON.  That's  one  way  of  looking  at  it. 

[ROGERS,  enticed  of  Satan,  has  con 
veyed  a  furtive  spoonful  of  jam 
towards  his  mouth.] 

[Without  turning.]    Isn't  there  jam  in  the  kitchen, 
Rogers  ? 

ROGERS  [scared].   Evings!     E've    got   eyes   in  'is 
boots  !     S'y,  do  you  call  it  stealing,  Mr.  Manson  ? 
MANSON.  Do  you  ?    [Persisting.]    Do  you  ? 
[18] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

[ROGERS  drops  the  spoon  and  moves 
mournfully  away  from  temptation.] 
ROGERS.  'Pon  my  word,  Mr.  Manson,  you  give 
me  the  fair  creeps  and  no  mistike! 

MANSON.  You  will  get  over  that  when  you  knew 
me  better. 

ROGERS.  Mr.  Manson!     Do  you   mind  if  I  arst 
you  a  question  ? 

MANSON.  No;  what  is  it? 

ROGERS.  What  d'you  wear  them  togs  for?     This 
ain't  India. 

MANSON.  People    don't   always   recognise   me   in 
anything  else. 

[He  turns  for  the  first  time.  His  face 
is  one  of  awful  sweetness,  dignity, 
and  strength.  There  is  the  calm  of 
a  great  mastery  about  him,  suited 
to  his  habit  as  a  servant.] 

ROGERS.  Garn,    Mr.    Manson,   that's   a   bit   orf! 
Clothes  don't  make  all  that  difference,  come  now!  .  .  . 
MANSON.  They  are  the  only  things  the  people  of 
this  world  see. 

ROGERS  [after  a  pause].  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Manson, 
you  mek  me  larf. 

MANSON.  That's    all    right,    Rogers.     I    have    a 
sense  of  humour  myself,  or  I  shouldn't  be  here. 

[19] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

ROGERS  [suddenly  sentimental].  Talking  about 
clothes,  Mr.  Manson,  I  often  thinks  in  my  'ead  as 
Fd  like  to  be  a  church  clergyman,  like  master. 
Them  strite-up  collars  are  very  becoming.  Wouldn't 
you,  Mr.  Manson  ? 

MANSON.  Wouldn't  that  be  rather  presuming, 
Rogers  ? 

ROGERS.  Don't    you    mek    no    mistike   about   it! 
'Ere!     [He  grows  confidential.]     You  are  a  butler, 
ain't  you  ?     Ain't  you,  now  ?  .  .  . 
MANSON.  Something  like  that. 
ROGERS.  Well,  perhaps  master  'asn't  allus  been  as 
'igh —     See!     O'  course,  I  don't  know,  but  they  do 
s'y  as  'e  was  once  only  a  ...     Wot  oh!     'Ere  'e  is! 

[The  VICAR'S  voice  is  heard  off.] 
VICAR.  I  shall  be  in  to  breakfast  at  a  quarter  to 
nine.     Don't  wait  for  me,  dearest. 

[He  enters  hurriedly  from  door, 
right,  watch  in  hand.  He  has  on 
his  cassock  and  biretta.] 

So  awkward —  Both  my  curates  down  with  the 
whooping-cough!  To-day,  too!  Just  when  I  was 
expecting  .  .  . 

[As  he  goes  up  stage,  left  of  table, 
MANSON  comes  down,  right,  with 
serviettes.  The  VICAR  wheels  round 

[20] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE    HOUSE 

slowly,  facing  him.  Observing  his 
astonishment,  ROGERS  steps  forward 
with  explanation.] 

ROGERS.  It's  the  new  butler,  sir.  Mr.  Manson, 
sir. 

VICAR.  Surely,  I — I've  seen  you  somewhere  be 
fore. 

MANSON  [looking  at  him].    Have  you,  sir  ? 

VICAR.  Hm!     No,  I  can't  quite  .  .  . 

ROGERS.  Beg  pardon,  sir:  getting  on  for  eight. 

[He  hands  him  a  small  silver  paten 
upon  which  there  is  a  piece  of 
bread.] 

VICAR    [Taking    it    mechanically].    Hm!     These 

mysteries  are  not  always  helpful  .  .  .      Anyway,  I'm 

glad  to  see  you,   Manson.     When  did  you  arrive  ? 

[He  begins  to  break  the  bread  into 

fragments  whilst  talking.] 

MANSON.  Early  this  morning,  sir.  I  should  have 
come  sooner;  but  I  had  a  little  trouble  down  at  the 
Customs. 

VICAR.  Indeed!     How  was  that? 
MANSON.  They   said    something   about   the    new 
Alien  Act,  sir. 

VICAR.  Of  course,  of  course.  Er  .  .  .  You  speak 
English  remarkably  well. 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

MANSON.  I  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  the  English, 
one  time  and  another. 

VICAR.  That's  good :  it  will  save  a  lot  of  explana 
tion.  By-the-bye  .  .  . 

My  old  friend  in  Brindisi,  who  recommended  you, 
writes  that  you  bore  a  very  excellent  character  with 
your  late  employer  in  India;  but  there  was  one  matter 
he  didn't  mention —  No  doubt  you  will  recognise 
its  importance  in  a  clergyman's  family —  He  never 
mentioned  your  religion. 

MANSON.  I  can  soon  remedy  that,  sir.     My  relig 
ion  is  very  simple.     I  love  God  and  all  my  brothers. 
VICAR  [after  a  pause].   God  and  your  brothers  .  .  . 
MANSON.  Yes,  sir:  all  of  them. 

[The  VICAR  stands  thoughtful  for  a 
moment.  He  places  the  paten  on 
the  table,  beside  him.] 

VICAR  [slowly].  That  is  not  always  so  easy,  Man- 
son;  but  it  is  my  creed,  too. 
MANSON.  Then—      Brother! 

[Rapt  in  thought,  the  VICAR  takes 
his  profferred  hand  mechanically.] 
[MARY  enters.     She  is  a  slim  young 
girl  in  her  teens,  the  picture  of  rosy 
sweetness  and  health.] 
MARY.  Good-morning,  Uncle  William!     Oh!  ,  .  . 


THE    MOST    REVEREND    THE    LORD    BISHOP 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

I  suppose  you're  Manson  ?  I  must  say  you  look 
simply  ripping!  How  do  you  do  ?  My  name's 
Mary.  [She  offers  her  hand.] 

MANSON  [kissing  it].  A  very  dear  name,  too! 

MARY  [embarrassed,  blurting].  We  were  wonder 
ing  last  night  about  your  religion.  I  said  .  .  . 

VICAR.  Mary,  my  child  .  .  . 

MARY.  You  don't  look  like  a  cannibal.  After  all, 
even  the  devil  isn't  as  black  as  he's  .  .  .  Oh,  I  beg 
your  pardon:  perhaps  I'm  rude. 

VICAR.  Yes,  indeed  you  are.  Don't  take  any 
notice  of  our  little  feather-brain,  Manson. 

MARY.  I  say,  has  uncle  told  you  who's  coming 
to-day  ? 

MANSON.  No. 

MARY.  Not  about  Uncle  Josh  ? 

VICAR.  T-t-t!  You  mustn't  call  your  uncle  Joshua 
that!  It  is  irreverent.  He  may  resent  it. 

MARY.  You  know,  you  II  make  me  positively  dis 
like  him!  Just  fancy,  Manson,  meeting  an  uncle 
whom  you've  never  so  much  as  set  eyes  on  before! 
I  don't  even  know  what  he  looks  like. 

[She  is  looking  MANSON  in  the 
face.  He  returns  her  gaze  curi 
ously.] 

MANSON.  Then — you  have  a  surprise  in  store. 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

MARY.  You  ought  to  be  awfully  interested!  You 
will,  when  you  hear  where  he  comes  from! 

MANSON.  I  am — interested. 

MARY.  Then  guess  who  he  is! 

MANSON.  Guess — when  I  know  already  ? 

MARY.  Oh,  Uncle  Joshua  isn't  his  only  name — 
don't  you  think  that!  He's  a  very  important  per 
son,  /  can  tell  you!  His  name's  on  everybody's  lips! 

MANSON  [dryly].  Really! 

MARY.  Can't  you  guess  ?  .  .  .  Think  of  the  very 
biggest  person  you  ever  heard  of  in  this  world! 

MANSON.  In  this  world:  that  sounds  rather  like  . . . 
Does  he  give  free  libraries  ? 

MARY.  I  can't  say  I  ever  heard  of  that;  but  he 
does  things  quite  as  wonderful!  Listen!  What  do 
you  think  of  the  BISHOP  OF  BENARES!! 

MANSON  [unimpressed].  Oh,  it's  the — Bishop  of 
Benares,  is  it  ? 

MARY.  I  must  say,  you  don't  seem  very  surprised! 
Surely  you've  heard  of  him  ?  He  comes  from  India. 

MANSON  [quietly].  I  happen  to  know  him. 

VICAR.  No,  really:   this  is  most  interesting! 

MANSON.  As  a  man  might  know  his  own  soul,  sir — 
as  they  say  in  India.  His  work  has  been  mine,  so  to 
speak. 

VICAR.  Bless  me,  you  will  know  him  better  than  I 

[24] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

do.     I  have  never  seen  him  since  I  was  quite  a  little 
lad. 

MARY  [with  prodigious  solemnity].  Just  you  think, 
Manson!     He's  my  uncle — my  own  father's  brother! 
[MANSON  is  now  up  stage  between 
the  two.] 

MANSON.  Tour  brother,  sir? 
VICAR  [fervently].   I   am  grateful    to  God  for  it, 
Manson:   he  is. 

[MANSON  regards  him  calmly  for  a 
moment:  then  he  turns  inquiringly 
towards  Mary.] 

MANSON.  Then — Miss  Mary  ?  .  .  . 
VICAR  [quickly].  Oh,  my  niece  is  the  daughter  of 
— of  my  other  brother. 

MANSON.  I  see:  two  brothers? 
VICAR  [shortly].  Yes,  yes,  I  have:   I — I  had. 
MANSON  [resuming  his  work  at  the  table].  Thank 
you,  sir:   it's  always  helpful,  coming  to  a  new  place, 
to  know  who  are — and  who  are  not — the  family  con 
nections. 

VICAR.  Come,  Rogers!     My  poor  brethren  in  the 
church  are  waiting.     I  must  see  to  their  necessities 
at  once.     [He  starts  for  the  door.] 
MANSON.  Pardon  me,  sir. 

[He    hands    him    the    bread    which, 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

among  those  necessities,  he  has  for 
gotten.    The  VICAR  looks  at  him  a 
moment   in   troubled   thought,    and 
then  goes  out,  followed  by  ROGERS.] 
ROGERS  [at  door].   I'll  be  back  to  'elp  you  in  with 
the  breakfast,  Mr.  Manson.  [Exit.] 

MARY.  Now,    Manson:    let's    talk!    You've    got 
nothing  more  to  do  ?  ... 
MANSON.  Not  till  breakfast. 

MARY.  Then  come  over  here,  and  make  ourselves 
comfy. 

[They  go  over  to  the  settee:  she 
plumps  herself  down,  gathering  her 
legs  up  into  a  little  bunch.  He 
seats  himself  beside  her.] 

Now!    Tell  me  everything  you  know  about  the 
Bishop  of  Benares! 

MANSON.  What — Uncle  Josh? 
MARY.  Ssh  —  ssh  —  ssh!      That's    naughty,   you 
know!    You  heard  what  Uncle  William  said!  .  .  . 
Do  you  think  he'd  very  much  mind  if  I  called  him 
Uncle  Josh  ? 

MANSON.  You  may  take  it  from  me,  that  you  may 
call  him  whatever  you  like. 

MARY.  That's  all  very  well;  but  you're  not  Uncle 
Joshua! 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

MANSON.  No  ?  ... 

MARY  [hotly].  No,  you're  not! 

MANSON.  Well,  since  you're  so  certain  .  .  . 

MARY  [with  conviction].  I'm  perfectly  certain 
he'll  never  stand  a  kid  like  me  cheeking  him  and 
calling  him  names!  Uncle  William's  quite  right!  .  .  . 
And  that's  why  I've  made  up  my  mind  that  I  sha'n't 
like  him,  after  all! 

MANSON.  Indeed,  I  hope  you  will! 

MARY.  Do  you  believe  in  liking  people  simply 
because  they're  uncles  ? 

MANSON.  Perhaps  I'm  a  prejudiced  person. 

MARY.  I  know  exactly  what  he'll  be — goody- 
goody,  isn't  he  ?  You  know  —  religious,  and  all 
that! 

MANSON.  God  forbid! 

MARY  [fearfully].  Oh,  perhaps  he's  the  other 
sort — like  auntie's  brother!  He's  a  bishop — the 
Bishop  of  Lancashire.  You  see,  I've  heard  a  lot 
about  bishops  in  my  time,  and  they're  not  always 
quite  nice  men. 

MANSON.  And  what  sort  is  the  Bishop  of  Lanca 
shire  ? 

MARY.  Well,  I  don't  think  I  ought  to  tell  you;  but 
I  once  heard  Uncle  William  call  him  a  devil! — And 
he's  a  clergyman! 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

MANSON.  Your  Uncle  Joshua's  reputation  is  ex 
actly  opposite. 

MARY.  There  is  that:  everybody  speaks  awfully 
well  of  him. 

MANSON.  I  don't  think  I  would  go  so  far  as  that: 
some  people  blackguard  him  abominably. 

MARY.  No!— Who? 

MANSON.  His  clergy,  chiefly. 

MARY.  His  clergy!  They  must  be  dreadfully 
wicked  men! 

MANSON.  No — only  blind:  perhaps,  also,  a  little 
deaf.  But  between  the  two  they  manage  to  make 
his  work  very  difficult. 

MARY.  Why  ?    What  do  they  do  ? 

MANSON.  It's  partly  what  they  do  not  do. 

MARY.  Oh,  I  see — lazy. 

MANSON.  Not  precisely — they  work:  they  are  not 
idle;  but  they  serve  other  masters. 

MARY.  Such  as  whom  ? 

MANSON.  The  Bishop  of  Lancashire. 

MARY  [after  a  pause].  I  always  thought  he  was 
such  a  great  success  out  there.  The  papers  have 
been  full  of  it — of  the  millions  of  people  who  follow 
him  about:  they  say  they  almost  worship  him  in 
some  places.  What  kind  of  people  are  they  ? 

MANSON.  Just  common  people. 

[28] 


THE   SERVANT    IN   THE   HOUSE 

MARY.  And  then,  all  that  talk  of  the  great  churches 
he  built  out  there!  .  .  . 

MANSON.  Churches  ? 

MARY.  Yes;  didn't  he? 

MANSON.  He  built  one. 

MARY.  What's  it  like  ? 

MANSON.  Those  who  have  seen  it  say  there  is 
nothing  like  it  on  earth. 

MARY  [eagerly].  Have  you  seen  it  ? 

MANSON.  I  was  there  when  he  built  it. 

MARY.  From  the  very  beginning  ? 

MANSON  [solemnly].  From  the  beginning. 

[MARY  pauses  before  speaking:  then 
she  says,  slowly.] 

MARY.  I  hope  I  shall  like  him.  Is  he — is  he  any 
thing  like  you  ? 

[MANSON  regards  her  silently  for  a 
moment.] 

MANSON.  How  is  it  that  you  know  so  little  about 
him  ? 

MARY.  Well,  you  see,  I  only  heard  yesterday. 

MANSON.  I  thought  you  said  his  name  was  on 
everybody's  lips. 

MARY.  You  don't  understand.  I  mean,  I  never 
knew  that  he  had  anything  to  do  with  me — that  he 
was  my  father's  brother. 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

MANSON.  Didn't  he  know  ? 

MARY.  Who — father  ?  Oh,  you  see,  I  ...  I  dont 
know  my  father 

Uncle  William  didn't  know  anything  about  it  until 
yesterday. 

MANSON.  Hm!    That  is  strange,  too! 

MARY.  There's  a  bit  of  a  mystery  about  it  alto 
gether.  Would  you  like  to  hear  ?  It  is  rather  like  a 
fairy-tale. 

MANSON.  It  must  be.     Yes,  do  go  on. 

MARY.  It  was  all  through  Uncle  William's  Restora 
tion  Fund.  You  see,  our  old  church  is  in  a  perfectly 
rotten  state  of  decay,  and  naturally  it  would  take  a 
lot  to  repair  it:  so  uncle  thought  of  starting  a  Fund — 
Yes!  Wasn't  it  clever  of  him  ? — I  addressed  all  the 
envelopes. 

Would  you  believe  it,  we  couldn't  get  a  single 
halfpenny!  Isn't  it  a  shame?  —  Such  a  nice  old 
church,  too! 

MANSON.  How  was  that  ? 

MARY.  That's  the  question!  People  have  been 
most  rude!  Oh,  the  letters  we  have  had!  The 
funny  thing  is,  for  all  their  fault-finding,  they  none 
of  them  agree  with  each  other! — Some  say  the  foun 
dations  are  all  wrong:  some  don't  like  the  stained- 
glass  windows;  but  if  you  ask  me  .  .  . 

[30] 


THE    SERVANT    IN   THE    HOUSE 

MANSON.  Yes,  what  do  you  think  ? 

MARY.  Well,  uncle  won't  hear  of  it;  but  I  can't 
help  thinking  old  Bletchley  is  right  .  .  . 

MANSON.  Who's  he  ? 

MARY.  Oh,  he's  a  dreadfully  wicked  man,  I  know 
that—  He's  the  quack  doctor  in  the  village:  he's — 
he's  an  atheist!  .  .  . 

MANSON.  Well,  what  does  he  think  is  the  matter  ? 

MARY.  He  says  it's  the  DRAIN! 

MANSON.  The — the  drain  ?  .  .  . 

MARY.  Um!  You  know,  in  spite  of  what  uncle 
says,  there  is  a  smell:  I  had  it  in  my  nose  all  last 
Sunday  morning.  Up  in  the  choir  it's  bad  enough, 
and  round  by  the  pulpit — •  Ugh!  I  can't  think  how 
uncle  stands  it! 

That's  why  the  people  won't  come  to  church— 
They  say  so:  they  stand  in  the  market-place  listening 
to  old  Bletchley,  instead  of  listening  to  uncle  and 
trying  to  be  good. 

The  odd  thing  is,  it  must  be  that  very  same  drain 
that's  causing  the  trouble  in  uncle's  study—  That's 
his  study  out  there,  where  they've  been  digging: 
it's  where  he  writes  his  sermons.  You  know,  I've 
noticed  the  smell  for  some  time,  but  uncle  got  so 
cross  whenever  I  mentioned  it,  that  I  learned  to 
hold  my  tongue.  At  last,  auntie  smelt  it,  too,  and 


THE    SERVANT   IN   THE    HOUSE 

that  soon  brought  the  men  in!  Ugh!  Perhaps 
you've  .  .  . 

MANSON.  I  have!  But  what  has  all  this  to  do 
with  .  .  . 

MARY.  Don't  get  impatient:  it's  all  part  of  the 
story.  .  .  .  Well,  we  thought  we  should  have  pool 
dear  Uncle  William  perfectly  ill  ... 

MANSON.  Because  of  the  drain  ?  .  .  . 

MARY.  No,  because  of  the  Fund.  He  tried  every 
thing:  all  his  rich  friends,  bazaars,  jumble-sales,  spe 
cial  intercessions — everything!  And  nothing  seemed 
to  come  of  it! 

Then  at  last,  yesterday  morning,  he  was  reading 
the  newspaper,  and  there  was  a  long  piece  about  the 
Bishop  of  Benares.  Uncle  read  it  aloud  to  us. 
Suddenly,  in  the  middle,  he  broke  off  and  said: 
Look  at  the  power  this  chap  seems  to  have  at  the 
back  of  him!  I  wish  to  God  I  had  some  of  it! 

He  had  scarcely  said  it,  when  there  was  a  rat-tat 
at  the  door:  it  was  the  postman;  and  what  do  you 
think  ?  IT  WAS  A  LETTER  FROM  THE  BISHOP  OF 
BENARES! 

MANSON  [anticipating  the  critics].  What  a  coin 
cidence! 

MARY.  Isn't  that  wonderful  ?  Isn't  it  just  like 
a  fairy-tale  ?  Wait  a  bit.  There's  more  yet  .  .  • 

[32] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

Here's  the  letter:    uncle  gave   it   me   for  my  auto 
graphs  .  .  . 

[She  fishes  it  out  from  her  pocket. 
MANSON  reads  it  aloud,  slowly  and 
clearly.] 

MANSON.  "/  shall  be  with  you  during  to-morrow 
morning.  If  any  one  will  help  me,  I  will  restore  your 
church.  Tour  brother,  'Joshua.'9 

MARY  [pointing].  And  there,  do  you  see,  under 
neath,  in  brackets:  The  Bishop  of  Benares. 

MANSON.  Dear  me,  dear  me,  just  those  few  words! 
MARY.  Wasn't  it  like  an  answer  to  prayer  ?  Auntie 
saw  that  at  once! 

And  the  odd  part  about  it  is,  that  Uncle  William 
did  have  a  brother  Joshua  who  went  away  and  got 
lost  in  India  years  and  years  ago!  And  to  think 
that  he  was  who  he  was  all  the  time!  To  think 
of  him  never  writing  until  yesterday!  To  think  that 
before  the  day  is  out  he  will  be  sitting  down  here, 
perhaps  in  this  very  place,  just  like  .  .  . 

[She  breaks  off  suddenly,  gazing  at 
him;  for  his  eyes  have  taken  a 
strange  fire.] 

MANSON.  Just  like  I  am  now  .  .  . 
MARY  [falteringly].  Yes  .  .  . 
MANSON.  Talking  to  you  .  .  . 

[33] 


THE   SERVANT    IN   THE   HOUSE 

MARY.  Oh!  .  .  .  [She  rises,  afraid.] 
MANSON  [softly].  Mary  .  .  . 
MARY  [in  a  whisper].  Who  are  you  ?  .  .  . 
MANSON.  I  am  ... 

[He  is  interrupted  by  the  great  bell 

of  the  church,  which  tolls  the  Sanctus. 

After  the  third  stroke,  he  continues.] 
I  am  the  servant  in  this  house.     I  have  my  work 
to  do.     Would  you  like  to  help  me  ? 
MARY.  What  shall  I  do  ? 

MANSON.  Help  to  spin  the  fairy-tale.     Will  you  ? 
MARY.  I  will. 

MANSON.    Then    keep    the    secret  —  Remember! 
And  wish  hard. 

MARY.  Do  you  believe  in  wishing  ? 
MANSON.  Everything    comes    true,    if   you  wish 
hard  enough. 

MARY.  What  shall  I  wish  for  ? 
MANSON.  What  have  you  needed  most?    What 
have  you  not  had  ?    Think  it  out. 

[Enter  AUNTIE  in  a  negligee  morning 

gown.     She   has   a   preoccupied  air. 

She  carries  her  husband's  coat  over 

her  arm.] 

AUNTIE.  Oh,  I  heard  you  had  arrived.     I  hope 
they  gave  you  something  to  eat  when  you  came  in. 

[34] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

MANSON.  Thank  you,  ma'am:  it  will  do  later. 

AUNTIE.  Mary  .  .  .  Dearest  .  .  . 

MARY.  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  auntie  dear,  I  ... 

AUNTIE.  Dreaming  again!  [Putting  her  arm 
round  her.]  Come,  I  want  you  to  put  your  uncle's 
coat  by  the  fire.  He  will  be  cold,  coming  out  of  that 
draughty  church. 

MARY  [hugging  her].  You  darling!  I  believe  you 
think  of  nobody  but  uncle  in  the  world! 

AUNTIE.  And  you,  sweetheart:  you  come  next— 
a  very  near  next!  Now,  run  along. 

[MARY  takes  the  coat  to  the  fire.] 

[Surveying  the  table].  That's  very  nice,  Manson, 
very  nice  indeed!  Perhaps,  just  a  little  further  this 
way.  .  .  .  [Removes  flowers.]  My  husband  is  so 
fond  of  them.  Ye-es;  and  I  wanted  things  par 
ticularly  nice  this  morning  .  .  . 

MARY  [at  the  fire,  looking  up].  I  thought  you  said 
you — you  didn't  expect  him  till  twelve-thirty!  .  .  . 

AUNTIE  [absorbed].  Whom  ? 

MARY  [chuckling].  The — the  Bishop  of  Benares. 

AUNTIE.  The  —  the  .  .  .  Oh,  it's  your  uncle  I 
am  ...  [To  Manson].  By-the-bye,  has  the  postman 
been  yet  ? 

MANSON  [at  the  window].  I  can  see  him  coming 
up  the  lane.  He's  stopped  at  the  next  house. 

[35] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

AUNTIE.  Oh,  then,  Mary:  will  you  very  much 
mind  if  you  don't  have  breakfast  with  us  this  morn 
ing  ?  I  want  to  have  a  private  talk  with  your  uncle. 

MARY.  Oh,  auntie,  dear!  .  .  . 

AUNTIE.  Don't  think  of  yourself,  dear —  Remem 
ber,  there  are  other  people  in  the  world  besides  you. 
Go  down  into  the  village,  and  have  breakfast  with 
poor  old  Grannie  Durden.  Take  her  some  nice 
new-laid  eggs  and  a  pat  of  butter —  Poor  soul,  it 
would  be  a  charity! 

MARY.  Oh,  auntie,  she's  as  deaf  as  a  post! 

AUNTIE.  Dearest!  —  Remember  what  your  uncle 
said  last  Sunday  about  Pure  religion  and  unde filed! 
He  mentioned  Mrs.  Durden  only  a  week  ago;  but  I 
forgot.  Now,  run  along. 

MARY  [reluctantly].  Very  well,  auntie. 

[She   goes   out   by   the   main   door.] 

AUNTIE    [laughing].  Inconsiderate    little   monkey! 

I  am  glad  you  have  not  thought  of  changing  your 
pretty,  native  costume,  Manson.  It  is  very  pictu 
resque;  and,  besides,  to-day  there  is  a  special  reason 
why  it  may  be  considered  complimentary. 

[A    double    knock    is    heard    at   the 
outer  door.] 

Ah!     Quick,  Manson!     The  postman! 

[MANSON  goes  out.    AUNTIE  takes 
[36] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

a  look  at  the  coat:    rearranges  the 
flowers,  humming,  meanwhile,  "The 
Church's    One    Foundation";    and 
then     stands     impatiently    awaiting 
MANSON'S  reappearance.     Presently 
he  returns  with  a  letter  on  server.] 
MANSON.  A  letter  for  you,  ma'am. 
AUNTIE.  Ah!    What  I  expected! 

[She  breaks  open  the  letter  and  reads 
it  eagerly.] 

Excellent!     [More  dubiously].    Excellent  .  .  . 
Manson,  we  shall  have  to  be  very  busy  to-day. 
There  will  be  quite  a  Church  Congress  to  lunch — two 
bishops! 

MANSON.  Oh,  not  as  bad  as  that,  ma'am! 
AUNTIE.  Manson! 

MANSON.  Beg  pardon,  ma'am;  but  master  men 
tioned  only  one — his  brother,  the  Bishop  of  Be 
nares. 

AUNTIE.  My  brother  will  join  us  also — the  Bishop 
of  Lancashire.  This  is  his  letter. 

And  now  let's  have  breakfast,  at  once.  The  vicar 
is  sure  to  be  earlier  than  he  said;  and  I'm  hungry. 

[MANSON  goes  to  the  door.  As  he 
opens  it,  the  VICAR  and  ROGERS  re 
appear.] 

[37] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE    HOUSE 

MANSON.  Here  is  master.  I'll  hurry  up  the  break 
fast,  ma'am. 

VICAR    [entering].  Do,  Manson.     Let's  get  it  over. 

[MANSON  goes  out.] 
Excuse  me,  my  dear. 

[ROGERS    helps    him    off   with    the 
cassock.] 

So  tiresome!  Not  a  place  in  the  house  to  do  any 
thing!  Confound  the  drains!  Just  run  up-stairs 
for  my  coat,  Rogers. 

AUNTIE.  It's  here,  dear.  I  have  it  warming  for 
you. 

VICAR  [more  graciously].  Oh,  thank  you,  Martha. 
That  will  do,  then,  Rogers.  Tell  Manson  to  hurry  up. 
[ROGERS  helps  him  on  and  goes  out. 
The  cassock  is  left  lying  on  the  long 
stool  by  the  window.] 
[The  VICAR  crosses  moodily  to  the 
fireplace.  AUNTIE  stands  undecid 
ed,  watching  him,  the  letter  in  her 
hand.] 

AUNTIE.  You're  back  early,  dear. 
VICAR.  What  can  you  expect  ?     Not  a  soul  there, 
of  course! 

AUNTIE.  My  poor  William!  I'm  glad  I  thought 
to  hurry  up  the  breakfast. 

[38] 


THE    VICAR 


THE   SERVANT    IN   THE    HOUSE 

VICAR.  Thanks,  dear.  You  are  always  thought 
ful. 

AUNTIE.  William  .  .  . 

[He  looks  up.] 

I — I  want  to  have  a  little  talk  with  you. 

VICAR.  What  is  it  r     Any  more — worry  ? 

AUNTIE.  You  needn't  make  it  so. 

VICAR.  Ahl 

AUNTIE  [moving  over  to  him  and  stroking  his 
hair].  My  dearest  is  not  well. 

VICAR.  I  think  you  are  right,  Martha.  I  am  not 
well. 

AUNTIE  [alarmed].  Not  the  trouble  with  your 
heart  again  ? 

VICAR.  No;   I  fancy  it  goes  deeper  than  that! 

AUNTIE.  William!     What  do  you  mean  ? 

VICAR  [suddenly  facing  her].  Martha!  Do  you 
know  the  sort  of  man  you  have  been  living  with  all 
these  years  ?  Do  you  see  through  me  ?  Do  you 
know  me  ? — No :  don't  speak :  I  see  your  answer  al 
ready — Your  own  love  blinds  you!  Ha!  I  am  a 
good  man! — I  don't  drink,  I  don't  swear,  I  am  re 
spectable,  I  don't  blaspheme  like  Bletchley!  Oh 
yes,  and  I  am  a  scholar:  I  can  cackle  in  Greek:  I 
can  wrangle  about  God's  name:  I  know  Latin  and 
Hebrew  and  all  the  cursed  little  pedantries  of  my 

[39] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

trade!  But  do  you  know  what  I  am?  Do  you 
know  what  your  husband  is  in  the  sight  of  God  ? 
He  is  a  LIAR! 

AUNTIE.  William! 

VICAR.  A  liar!  I  heard  it  in  my  ears  as  I  stood 
up  before  Christ's  altar  in  the  church  this  morning, 
reciting  my  miserable  creed!  I  heard  it  in  my  pray 
ers!  I  heard  it  whilst  I  tasted  .  .  .  whilst  I  drank  .  .  . 
whilst  I  ... 

[He  sinks  into  a  chair,  and  buries  his 
face  in  his  hands.] 

AUNTIE.  Oh,  you  are  ill! 

VICAR  [breaking  down].  O  wretched  man  that  I 
am!  Who  shall  deliver  me  out  of  the  body  of  this 
death  ? 

[She  stands  above  him,  hesitating. 
After  a  moment,  she  says,  deter 
minedly.] 

AUNTIE.  I  know:  it's  this  money  trouble.  It's 
what  Joshua  said  in  his  letter  about  your  having  to 
get  somebody  to  help  him.  Well,  that's  just  what 
I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about.  I  have  a  way  out 
of  the  difficulty. 

VICAR.  It's  not  the  church.  I  could  wish  every 
stone  of  it  were  crumbled  into  dust! 

AUNTIE.  William,  how  wicked  of  you!  .  .  ., 

[40] 


THE   SERVANT    IN   THE   HOUSE 

Is  it  —  is  it  anything  to  do  with  your  brother 
Joshua  ?  Why  don't  you  answer  ? 

VICAR.  It  has  to  do  with  my  brother — Robert. 

AUNTIE.  Mary's  fa  ... 

William,  did  you  send  him  that  telegram  yester 
day  ? 

VICAR.  Yes:   that  wras  a  lie,  too! 

AUNTIE.  Nonsense!     Don't  be  absurd! 

VICAR.  It  was  a  lie! 

AUNTIE.  You  told  him  we  couldn't  do  with  him 
because  the  house  was  upset:  that's  true!  You  told 
him  that  the  drains  were  up  in  the  study:  that's 
true! 

VICAR.  Was  that  the  real  reason  why  we  refused 
to  have  him  here  ?  Was  it  ? 

AUNTIE.  I  can't  think  what  possessed  him  to 
write  and  say  he'd  come.  We've  not  heard  from 
him  for  fifteen  years! 

VICAR.  Whose  fault  is  that  ? 

AUNTIE.  Why,  his  own,  of  course!  He  can't  ex 
pect  to  be  treated  decently!  [She  walks  up  and 
down  with  anger.]  It's  perfectly  absurd,  it  really  is, 
dear,  making  all  this  fuss  and  trouble  about  a 
wretched — 

Have  you  told  Mary  ? 

VICAR.  No:  the  silent  lie  was  comparatively  easy! 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

AUNTIE.  My  dear,  do  try  and  be  reasonable. 
Think  of  what  he  is ! 

VICAR.  Isn't  he  my  brother  ? 

AUNTIE.  No,    he's    not    your    brother — at    least, 
nothing  that  a  brother  ought  to  be!     Ridicules  ev 
erything  that   you   hold    sacred!     Hates   everything 
you  love!     Loves  everything  you  hate!  .  .  . 
f  VICAR.  That's  true! 

AUNTIE.  A  scoffer,  an  atheist,  a  miserable  drunkard! 

VICAR.  That  was  fifteen  years  ago,  remember, 
after  Mary's  mother  died!  .  .  . 

AUNTIE.  A  man  like  that  never  changes!  What 
would  have  become  of  that  poor  child  if  we  hadn't 
stepped  in  ?  Have  you  ever  dared  to  tell  her  what 
her  father's  like?  Of  course  not!  To-day,  too,  of 
all  days!  It's  utterly  preposterous! 

VICAR.  That  is  all  the  more  reason  why  .  .  . 

AUNTIE.  My  dear,  think  of  his  occupation  ! 

VICAR.  I  think  the  child  ought  to  be  told. 

AUNTIE.  Of  his  occupation  ? 

VICAR.  That,  and  everything. 

AUNTIE.  My  dear,  have  you  gone  perfectly  mad  ? 
Do  you  know  who's  coming  ?  Do  you  want  to  ad 
vertise  his  occupation  to  all  the  world  ? 

VICAR.  Do  you  think  his  brother  Joshua  would 
rnind  that  ? 

[42] 


THE    SERVANT    IN   THE    HOUSE 

AUNTIE.  It  isn't  only  your  brother  Joshua!  You 
think  of  nobody  but  your  brother  Joshua!  Some 
one  else  is  coming. 

VICAR.  Who  ? 

AUNTIE.  My  brother  Barnes!  [She  throws  down 
the  letter.]  Now  you've  heard  it  all! 

[There  is  a  long  silence.  Then  the 
VICAR  speaks  in  a  low,  intense  voice 
of  bitter  contempt.] 

VICAR.  Your  brother  James  is  coming  here  to 
day  ?  You  have  brought  him  here  to  help  my 
brother  Joshua!  Him! 

AUNTIE.  Why  not?     He's  rich!     He  can  do  it! 

VICAR.  So,  he  can  recognise  me  at  last! 

AUNTIE.  It  was  as  much  your  fault  as  his,  that 
you  have  never  met!  He  naturally  resented  our 
marriage. 

VICAR  [ironically].  But,  of  course,  now  that  I'm 
related  to  the  great  and  wealthy  Bishop  of  Benares  .  .  . 

AUNTIE  [warmly].  He's  as  much  a  bishop  as  your 
brother  is! 

VICAR.  He!     That  gaitered  snob! 

AUNTIE.  William,  how  dare  you! 

VICAR.  Yes,  he's  a  bishop!  A  bishop  of  stocks 
and  shares!  A  bishop  of  the  counting-house!  A 
bishop  of  Mammon! 

[43] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

••••••••^•••^^•••••^••••••••^••i^^^BMB^MWM^w^w^wMWi^MMMBBBWMBBBBMBMii 

AUNTIE.  William! 

VICAR.  The  devil's  own  bishop! 

AUNTIE.  At  least,  he  isnt  a  WORKING-MAN! 

VICAR  [as  though  stung].  Ah!  ... 

[They  stand  below  the  table,  one  on 
either  side,  tense  with  passion.  They 
remain  so.] 

[MANSON  and  ROGERS  come  in  with 
the  breakfast.  ROGERS  goes  out  im 
mediately.] 

MANSON.  Sorry  to  have  delayed,  sir;  but  you  said 
a  quarter  to  nine,  didn't  you,  sir  ? 

VICAR.  Yes. 

MANSON.  Breakfast's  served,  ma'am.  It's  served, 
sir. 

[They  move  to  the  table,   absently, 
first  one,  then  the  other,  as  he  goes 
to  each  separately.] 
[MANSON  serves  them  in  silence  for  a 
few  moments.] 

Beg  pardon,  sir:  what  time  did  you  expect  the 
Bishop  of  Benares  ? 

VICAR.  Oh! — During  the  morning,  he  said.  That 
will  mean  the  twelve-thirty,  I  suppose.  It's  the  only 
convenient  service. 

MANSON.  And  the  Bishop  of  Lancashire,  ma'am  ? 

[44] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

AUNTIE.  He  didn't  say;  but  I  think  we  may  ex 
pect  him  by  the  same  train.  He  would  scarcely 
think  of  catching  the  .  .  . 

[There  is  heard  a  loud  Ringing  of  the 
Bell — a  bishop  at  the  very  least.     All 
three  heads  turn  automatically.] 
Good  gracious!     Already! 

MANSON.  It    doesn't    sound    like   the    Bishop    of 
Benares,  ma'am.     He  generally  comes  very  quietly, 
AUNTIE.  Quick! 
MANSON,  Yes,  ma'am, 

[He  goes  out  by  the  main  door.] 
AUNTIE  [rapidly].  William,  I'm  sorry!  Really,  I 
didn't  mean  you:  I  never  thought  of  you:  I  was  only 
thinking  of  Robert.  I  only  think  of  you  as  a  great 
scholar  and  a  saint  —  yes,  you  are  one! — and  as  the 
man  I  love!  I  would  sacrifice  everything  to  your 
happiness.  Robert's  nothing  to  me:  that's  why  I  .  .  . 
Think  of  what  it  might  mean  to  Mary — we  must  think 
of  others,  William!— our  own  little  child,  as  we  try 
to  imagine  „  *  * 

IJThe    VICAR    makes    a    gesture    of 
anguish.] 

As  for  James,  God  knows  I  did  it  for  the  best. 
I  love  you,  my  dear,  I  love  you:  I  wouldn't  have 
vexed  you  for  the  world !  After  all,  he  is  my  brother, 

[45] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

William!  ....  I  thought  of  patching  up  the  enmity 
between  you:  I  thought  of  all  your  hopes  of  rebuilding 
the  church;  and  James  was  the  only  rich  man  I  thought 
might  be  induced — under  the  circumstances  .  .  . 

VICAR.  I  am  in  the  darkness.     I  don't  know  what 
to  do.     God  has  left  me  stranded. 

[MANSON  re-enters.     They  look  at 
him  inquiringly.] 

MANSON.  It  isn't  the  Bishop  of  Benares,  ma'am. 
AUNTIE.  Well,  who  is  it  ? 
MANSON.  I  didn't  ask  his  name,  ma'am. 
AUNTIE.  T-t-t!     How  is  he  dressed? 
MANSON.  Rather  oddly,  ma'am:    I  noticed  that 
his  legs  .  .  . 

AUNTIE.  William,  it's  James!     I  can't  be  seen  like 
this.     Shew  him  in.     I  can  slip  out  this  way. 

[MANSON  goes  out.] 
William,  try  and  treat  him  like  .  .  . 
VICAR.  How?     Like  a  brother? 
AUNTIE.  I  was  going  to  say,  like  a  Priest  and  a 
Christian,  William. 

VICAR.  Like  a  Christian,  then. 
AUNTIE.  My  dear! 

[She  goes  out  by  the  door  to  the 
right,  as  MANSON  begins  to  turn  the 
handle  of  the  other  door.] 
[46] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

MANSON  [outside].  This  way,  if  you  please. 

[The  VICAR  braces  himself  up  and 

turns    towards    the    door    with    an 

effort  at  cordiality.] 
VICAR.  Just  in  time  for  breakfast,  my  lord. 

[Enter  ROBERT  SMITH  and  MANSON. 

ROBERT'S  costume  is  a  navvy's,  the 

knees  tied  with  string.] 

ROBERT  [grimly].  Thanks,  Bill  Awlmighty,  don't 
mind  if  I  do.     My  belly's  fair  aching, 
VJCAR.  Robert! 

ROBERT.  Yus,  it's  me,  my  'oly  brother! 
VICAR.  Didn't  you — didn't  you  get  my  wire  ? 
ROBERT.  Yus,  I  gorit:  Drains  wrong,  eh  ?  Thought 
I'd  like  to  'av*  a  look  at  'em — my  job,  yer  know, 
drains!    So  you'll  excuse  the  togs:  remind  you  of  old 
days,  eh  what  ? 

VICAR.  Robert,  what  have  you  come  here  for? 
ROBERT.  Ton  arsk  me  that  ? 
VICAR.  Yes,  I  do,  Bob  .  .  . 

ROBERT.  Why,  to  see  my  little  gel,  o*  course — 
Gawd  curse  you!  .  .  . 
Now  go  an  tell  your  ole  woman. 

[The     VICAR     stands     as     though 

stricken.] 
Did  you  'ear  me  speak  ?    Tell  'er! 

[47] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

[The  VICAR  wavers  a  moment,  and 

then    staggers    out    silently   through 

the    door,    right.     ROBERT  watches 

him  off  with  a  look  of  iron.     He  pays 

no   heed   to   MANSON,   who   stands 

quite  close  to  him,  on  the  left.] 

See  that  blighter  ?     That's  the  bloke  as  was  born 

with  no  bowels!     'E  might  a-made  a  man  o'  me  once, 

if  Vd  tried;  but  'e  didn't — 'im  and  'is  like.      Hm! 

Dam  foolish,  I  call  it,  don't  you  ? 

MANSON.  Yes,  both:  foolish  and — damned! 

[ROBERT  turns  and  looks  into  his 
face  for  the  first  time  as  the  curtain 
slowly  falls  on  the  First  Act.] 


THE     SECOND     ACT 


THE     SECOND     ACT 

As  the  curtain  rises,  the  scene  and  situation  remain 
unchanged.  Presently,  Robert,  having  completed  his  in 
spection  of  the  other's  face  and  costume,  moves  away  with 
a  characteristic  interjection. 

ROBERT.  Oh,  Jeeroosalem!  .  .  . 
'Ere,    'elp    us    orf,    comride:    I'm    wet    through. 
Rainin'  cats  an'  dorgs  dahn  at  the  Junction!     'Ere, 
I  cawn't  .  .  .  Wot  oh!     The  very  identical!  .  .  . 

[MANSON  has  helped  him  off  with 
his  coat,  and  now  hands  him  the 
cassock.] 

[Getting  into  it.]  Don't  know  oo  you  are,  ole  pal; 
but  you're  a  bit  of  orl  right!  .  .  .  Don't  I  look  a  corf- 
drop  ?  'Ere,  where  ye  teking  it  to  ?  ... 

[He  watches  MANSON  suspiciously 
as  he  places  his  coat  before  the  fire 
to  dry.] 

Bit  'andy,  ain't  yer  ?  .  .  . 

So  this  is  where  'e  lives!  A  bloomin*  palace,  as 
never  I  did  see!  .  .  . 

IS'] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

[MANSON  prepares  a  place  for  him 
at  the  table,  and  pours  out  a  cup  of 
tea,  etc.] 

Right  you  are,  ole  comride!  'E  said  breakfast,  an' 
breakfast  it  shall  be,  I  don't  fink!  Blimey!  Sossin- 
gers!  Ain't  'ad  the  taste  of  sossingers  in  my  gizzard 
for  I  don't  know  'ow  long! 

[He  sits  and  devours  whilst  MANSON 
breaks  and  hands  him  bread,  wait 
ing  upon  him.] 

[Between  bites.]  Wouldn't  think  as  I  was  'is 
brother,  would  yer  —  not  to  look  at  me  ?  But 
strooth,  /  am;  an'  wot's  more,  'e  cawn't  deny  it!  ... 
[He  labours  with  a  little  joke.]  There's  a  lot  o'  brothers 
knockin'  abaht  as  people  don't  know  on,  eh  what  ? 
See  wot  I  mean  ?  [Suddenly  serious.]  Not  as  I'm 
one  o'  them  sort,  mind  yer:  my  father  married  my 
mother  honest, 'same  as  I  married  my  little  .  .  . 

[After    a    moment's     reflection,    he 
makes    fresh    onslaught    upon    the 
sausages.     Presently    he    looks    up.] 
'Ere,  ain't  you  goin'  ter  'av'  none  ?  .  .  . 
Cawn't  yer  speak  ? 
MANSON.  Yes. 

ROBERT.  Well,  why  cawn't  yer  arnser  a  bloke 
when  'e  arsks  yer  civil  ? 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

MANSON.  You    didn't    make    it    clear    that    you 
wanted  to  eat  with  me. 

ROBERT.  Want  a  bit  of  'eart  in  it,  eh  ? 

MANSON.  Yes,  that's  all. 

ROBERT  [largely].  Sit  dahn,  ole  pal!     Mek  your 
self  at  'ome! 

[MANSON  obeys.] 

See,   wot   was    I   tawkin'    abaht,   just    afore   you 
turned  narsty  ? 

MANSON.  You  were  going  to  say  something  about 
— your  little  girl's  mother. 

[ROBERT'S    cutlery   bristles    up    like 
bayonets.] 

ROBERT.  Look  'ere,  mate,  don't  you  come  tryin' 
it  on  with  me!     I  don't  care  oo  you  are! 

MANSON.  I  know  that. 

ROBERT.  Then  let  me  be,  I  tell  yer!     You  tek  all 
the  taste  out  o'  my  sossingers. 

MANSON.  I  should  like  to  hear  about  her,  com 
rade. 

ROBERT.  You  cawn't  bring  'er  back.     She's  dead. 

MANSON.  What  was  her  name  ? 

ROBERT.  Mary — same  as  the  little  gel's. 

MANSON.  I   wonder  whether   they    are    anything 
alike. 

ROBERT.  That's  wot  I  come  to  see!  .  .  , 

[53] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

She  'ad  'er  mother's  nose  when  she  was  a  biby — 
and  'er  eyes!  Gorstrike,  she  was  the  very  spit — far 
as  a  biby  could  be!  .  .  . 

Swelp  me  Moses,  if  I  find  'er  anything  like  Bill's 
ole  geezer,  I'll  cut  'er  throat! 

MANSON.  And  if  she's  like  her  mother  ?  What  then  ? 

ROBERT.  Why,  then  .  .  .  there's  allus  my  own.  I 
nearly  did  it  once. 

MANSON  [after  a  pause].  How  did  you  come  to 
lose  her? 

ROBERT  [roughly].  Never  you  mind! 

MANSON.  How  did  you  come  to  lose  her  ? 

ROBERT  [sullenly].  Typhoid  fever. 

[MANSON  notes  the  evasion  with  a 
glance.  He  helps  ROBERT  to  more 
tea,  and  waits  for  him  to  speak. 
ROBERT  wriggles  under  his  gaze, 
and  at  last  he  says,  reluctantly.] 

Oh,  it  was  my  own  fault,  as  I  lost  the  kid! 

MANSON.  That  was  a  sore  loss,   comrade. 

ROBERT.  /  know  it!    Needn't  rub  it  in!  ... 

Look  'ere,  comride,  I  'adn't  a  bad  nature  to  be 
gin  with.  Didn't  me  an'  my  brother  Joshua  pinch 
an'  slave  the  skin  orf  our  bones  to  send  that  spotted 
swine  to  school  ?  Didn't  we  'elp  'im  out  with  'is 
books  an'  'is  mortar-boards  an*  'is  bits  of  clothes  to 

[54] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

try  an*  mek  'im  look  respectable  ?  That's  wot  we 
did,  till  'e  got  'is  lousy  scholyships,  an*  run  away  to 
get  spliced  with  that  she-male  pup  of  a  blood-'ound! 
Cos  why  ?  Cos  we  was  proud  of  the  little  perisher!— 
proud  of  'is  'ead-piece!  We  'adn't  gone  none  our 
selves — leastways,  7  'adn't:  Joshua  was  different 
to  me;  and  now  .  .  . 

MANSON.  And  your  brother  Joshua:  what  of  him  ? 
Where  is  he  now? 

ROBERT.  /  don't  knowr — gone  to  pot,  like  me! 
P'r'aps  eatin'  is  bleedin'  'eart  out,  same  as  I  am,  at 
the  base  ingratitood  of  the  world! 

MANSON.  Perhaps  so! 

ROBERT.  Where  was  I  ?  You  mek  me  lose  my 
air,  shoving  in  with  your  bit! 

MANSON.  You  were  saying  that  you  hadn't  a  bad 
nature  to  begin  with. 

ROBERT  [truculently].  No  more  I  'adn't!  .  .  . 

O'  course,  when  she  took  an' — an'  died,  things 
was  different:  I  couldn't  'old  up  the  same —  Some- 
'ow,  I  don't  know,  I  lost  my  'eart,  and  .  .  . 

MANSON.  Yes  ?  .  .  . 

ROBERT.  That's  'ow  I  come  to  lose  my  kid,  my 
little  kid  .  .  .  Mind  you,  that  was  fifteen  years  ago: 
I  was  a  rotter  then,  same  as  you  might  be.  I  wasn't 
'arf  the  man  I  am  now  .  .  . 

[55] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

To u  can  larf!  A  man  can  change  a  lot  in  fifteen 
years! 

MANSON.  I  didn't  laugh. 

ROBERT.  Do  you  want  to  know  wot's  come  over 
me  since  then?  I  work — and  work  well:  that's 
more  than  some  of  'em  can  say —  And  I  don't  get 
much  money  for  it,  either!  That  ought  to  mek  'em 
feel  ashamed!  I'm  not  the  drunkard  I  was — not  by 
'arf!  If  I'm  bitter,  oo's  made  me  bitter?  You 
cawn't  be  very  sweet  and  perlite  on  eighteen  bob  a 
week — when  yer  get  it!  I'll  tell  yer  summat  else: 
I've  eddicated  myself  since  then — I'm  not  the  gory 
fool  I  was —  And  they  know  it!  They  can't  come 
playin'  the  'anky  with  us,  same  as  they  used  to! 
It's  Nice  Mister  Working-man  This  and  Nice  Mister 
Working-man  That,  will  yer  be  so  'ighly  hoUtging  as  to 
9 and  over  your  dear  little  voting-paper — you  poor,  sweet, 
muddy-nosed  old  idiot,  as  can't  spot  your  natural 
enemy  when  yer  see  'im!  That  orter  mek  some  on 
'em  sit  up! 

Fifteen  years  ago  me  an'  my  like  'adn't  got  a 
religion!  By  Gawd,  we  'av'  one  now!  Like  to  'ear 
wot  it  is  ? 

MANSON.  Yes. 

ROBERT.  SOCIALISM!     Funny,  ain't  it? 

MANSON.  7  don't  think  so.     It's  mine,  too. 

[56] 


AUNTIE 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

ROBERT.  I  believe  in  fighting  with  my  clarss! 

MANSON.  Oh,  against  whom  ? 

ROBERT.  Why,  agin  all  the  other  clarsses — curse 
'em! 

MANSON.  Isn't  that  a  bit  of  the  old  Robert  left, 
comrade  ? 

ROBERT.  Oh,  leave  me  alone.  I  cawn't  be  allus 
pickin'  an'  choosin'  my  words!  I  ain't  no  scholar — 
thank  Gawd! 

MANSON.  All  the  same,  I'm  right,  eh,  comrade  ? 
Comrade  .  .  . 

ROBERT  [grudgingly].  Well,  yus!  [Savagely.] 
Yus,  I  tell  yer!  Cawn't  a  bloke  speak  'otter  than 'e 
means  without  you  scrapin'  at  'is  innards  ? 

[Exploding  again).  Wait  till  I  set  eyes  on  that 
bleedin'  brother  of  mine  again,  that's  all! 

MANSON.  Which  bleeding  brother  ? 

ROBERT  [with  a  thumb -jerk).  Why,  Vra,  o* 
course!  [Sneering.]  The  Reverend  William!  'Im 
as  you  said  was  damned!  .  .  .  Allus  did  'ate  parsons! 
I  'ates  the  sight  of  their  'arf-baked,  silly  mugs! 

[There  is  a  very  loud  Ringing  of  the 
Bell] 

'Ello!     'Ello!     Did  I  mek  a  row  like  that  ? 

MANSON.  You  tried,  didn't  you  ? 

ROBERT.  So  I  did,  not  'arf!    Thought  if  I  kicked 

[57] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

up  an  'ell  of  a  shindy  they'd  think  some  big  bug  was 
comin';  and  then  when  they'd  be  all  smiles  an'  bowin' 
an'  scrapin',  in  pops  me,  real  low! 

[ROGERS  enters.  On  seeing  them  at 
the  table,  he  is  apparently  troubled 
with  his  inside.] 

ROGERS.  Oh,  my  'oly  Evings! 

MANSON.  Who  is  it,  Rogers  ? 

ROGERS  [awed].  It's  the  Bishop  of  Lancashire! 

MANSON  [imperturbably].  Shew  him  in,  Rogers. 

ROGERS.  Beg  pardon,  Mr.  Manson  .  .  . 

MANSON.  I  said,  shew  him  in. 
Quick,  Rogers.     Keep  a  bishop  waiting! 

ROGERS.  Well,  I'm  jiggered! 

[He  is;  and  goes  out.] 

ROBERT.  'Ere!     Did  'e  say  bishop? 

MANSON.  Yes. 

ROBERT.  Comin5  'ere?    Now? 

[MANSON  nods  his  head  to  each 
inquiry.] 

Well,  I  ain't  agoin'  ter  leave  my  sossingers,  not  if 
'e  was  a  bloomin'  archangel,  see! 

[ROGERS,  still  jiggered,  ushers  in 
JAMES  PONSONBY  MAKESHYFTE, 
D.D.,  the  Most  Reverend  the  Lord 
Bishop  of  Lancashire.  He  looks  his 

[58] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

name,  his  goggles  and  ear-trumpet 
lending  a  beautiful  perfection  to  the 
resemblance.] 

[MANSON  has  risen:  ROBERT,  imper 
turbable,  discusses  sossingers:  ROG 
ERS,  with  a  last  excruciation  of  his 
ailment,  vanishes.] 

jjThe  Most  Reverend  Father  in  God 
stands  blinking  for  recognition. 
Pained  at  the  non-fulfilment  of  this 
worthy  expectation,  he  moves — a 
little  blindly  —  towards  the  table. 
Here  he  encounters  the  oppugnant 
back  of  the  voracious  ROBERT,  who 
grows  quite  annoyed.  Indeed,  he 
as  good  as  says  so.] 
'Ere,  where  ye  comin'  to  ? 

BISHOP  [peering   closely   into  his  face,  the  other 
edging  away].  Ah!     Mr.  Smythe,  or  I  am  mistaken. 
ROBERT.  Smith's  my  name!    Don't  you  call  me 
Smythe! 

BISHOP.  My  dear  sir,  don't  mention  it:  my  sister 
has  explained  everything.  I  bear  you  no  grudge- 
none  whatever! 

ROBERT.  What's  the  silly  ole  josser  jawin'  abaht 
now? 

[59] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

BISHOP.  But  I  perceive  that  I  have — er — [sniffing] 
disturbed  you  at  your  morning  meal  .  .  . 

ROBERT  [with  conviction].  You  'av'  that! 

BISHOP.  Eh  ?  .  .  . 

ROBERT  [louder].  I  say,  you  *av'! 

BISHOP    [fixing    his    ear- trumpet].     Just    once 
more  .  .  . 

ROBERT.  Oh,   Moses!    [Roaring,    and    indicating 
his  breakfast.]     You  'av',  blarst  you! 

BISHOP  [mistaking  the  gesticulation].  Thank  you, 

you   are   very  kind.     I   think   I  will.     I   could   get 

nothing  on  the  journey  but  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  bun. 

[He   sits   at  the  table  without  ever 

having  perceived  MANSON,  who  has 

nevertheless  been  serving  him.] 

ROBERT.  Yus,  you  look  as  if  you  fed  on  buns! 

[Throughout  the  play  the  audience 
will  understand  where  the  BISHOP 
does,  and  where  he  does  not,  hear 
by  his  use  or  non-use  of  the  ear- 
trumpet.  Perhaps  the  reader  will 
be  good  enough  to  imagine  these  oc 
casions  for  himself,  as  he  may  have 
observed  a  reluctance  on  the  part 
of  the  author  to  encumber  the  text 
with  stage  directions.] 

[60] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE    HOUSE 

BISHOP  [eating,  and  at  the  same  time  addressing 
the  becassocked  ROBERT].  And  you  must  not  think, 
on  account  of  the  little  coolness  between  us,  that  I 
have  not  followed  your  career  with  great  interest — 
very  great  interest!  Your  scholastic  achievements 
have  been  most  praiseworthy — especially  under  the 
unfortunate  circumstances.  .  ,  .  Although,  by-the- 
way,  I  cannot  at  all  agree  with  your  gloss  on  Romans 
fourteen,  twenty-three:  Katakekritai  either  means 
damned  or  nothing  at  all. 

ROBERT  [gesticulating].  It  was  9im  as  said  damned! 

BISHOP.  No,  no,  sir:  it  is  perfectly  indefensible! 

ROBERT.  I'll  use  what  langwidge  I  like! 

BISHOP  [warming].  You  said  katakekritai  .  .  . 

ROBERT.  I  never  did,  /  tek  my  oath! 

BISHOP.  My  dear  sir,  I  learned  my  Greek  at 
Shrewsbury,  before  you  were  born!  Don't  argue, 
sir! 

ROBERT.  Oo  is  argufying?  .  ,  .  Talking  to  me 
about  yer  Katama-what-d'you- call-it! 

BISHOP.  We  had  better  drop  the  subject!  .  .  . 
Boeotian!  After  all,  it  is  not  precisely  the  matter 
which  has  brought  us  together.  And  that  reminds 
me  ...  [Trumpet].  Has  he  come  yet  ? 

ROBERT.  Oo  ? 

BISHOP.  Your  brother,  of  course. 
[61] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

ROBERT.  My  brother!  Oh,  you'll  see  'im  soon 
enough ! 

BISHOP.  I  gather  from  your  remark  that  he  has 
not  arrived  yet.  Good!  The  fact  is,  I  should  like 
a  preliminary  discussion  with  yourself  before  meeting 
your  illustrious  brother. 

ROBERT.  Then  you'd  better  look  slippy! 

BISHOP.  I  beg  your  pardon  ?  .  .  . 

ROBERT  [with  a  flap  at  the  trumpet].  Go  on:  you 
'eard. 

BISHOP.  Of  course,  the  financial  undertaking  is 
considerable :  it's  not  like  an  investment,  where  there 
is  some  reasonable  hope  of  a  return:  it's  merely  a 
matter  of  charity!  The  money's — gone,  so  to  speak. 

ROBERT.  Yus,  I've  noticed  that  about  money, 
myself. 

BISHOP.  At  the  same  time,  I  should  like  my  name 
to  be  associated  with  your  brother's,  in  so  worthy  an 
enterprise  .  .  . 

ROBERT  [mildly  sarcastic].  You  don't  say! 

BISHOP.  And  then  again,  I  trust — I  say  I  trust — 
I  am  not  impervious  to  the  more  sacred  obligations 
involved;  but  ... 

[He  gropes  blindly  for  bread.] 

ROBERT.  I  allus  notice  that  sort  of  'igh  talk  ends 
with  a  "but"  .  .  . 

[62] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

BISHOP.  Naturally,  I  should  like  to  learn  a  little, 
beforehand,  of  your  brother's  views.  From  what  I 
gather,  they  are  not  altogether  likely  to  coincide  with 
my  own.  Of  course,  he  is  an  idealist,  a  dreamer. 
Now,  under  these  circumstances,  perhaps  .  .  . 

Eh,  what—     Oh!     Bless  my  soul! 

[MANSON  has  been  offering  him  bread 
for  some  time.  He  has  just  tumbled 
to  the  fact  of  his  presence.  He  rises.] 

My — my  Brother  from  Benares,  I  presume  ? 

ROBERT.  What,  my  pal,  'is  brother!  Oh,  Je'os- 
haphat! 

BISHOP.  Ten  thousand  pardons!  Really,  my  eye 
sight  is  deplorable!  Delighted  to  meet  you!  .  .  . 

I  was  just  observing  to  our  charming  host  that — 
er—  Humph!  .  .  . 

Bless  me!     Now  what  was  I  ... 

MANSON.  Something  about  your  sacred  obliga 
tions,  I  believe. 

BISHOP.  May  I  trouble  you  again  ? 

[MANSON  gravely  fixes  the  ear-trum 
pet  in  his  ear.] 

ROBERT.  That's  right:  stick  the  damned  thing  in 
'is  ear-'ole,  comride! 

MANSON  [through  the  trumpet].  Your  sacred  ob 
ligations. 

[63] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

BISHOP.  Precisely,  precisely!  Er —  Shall  we  sit? 
[They  do  so.  The  BISHOP  looks  to 
MANSON  to  begin.  MANSON,  failing 
him,  the  spirit  begins  to  work  within 
himself.] 

Well — er — speaking  of  that,  of  course,  my  dearly- 
beloved  brother,  I  feel  very  seriously  on  the  matter, 
very  seriously — as  I  am  sure  you  do.  The  restora 
tion  of  a  church  is  a  tremendous,  an  overwhelming 
responsibility.  To  begin  with,  it — it  costs  quite  a 
lot.  Doesn't  it? 

MANSON.  It  does:  quite  a  lot. 
BISHOP.  Hm, yes — yes!  .  .  .  You  mentioned  Sacred 
obligations  just  now,  and  I  think  that  on  the  whole 
I  am  inclined  to  agree  with  you.  It  is  an  admirable 
way  of  putting  it.  We  must  awaken  people  to  a 
sense  of  their  sacred  obligations.  This  is  a  work  in 
which  everybody  can  do  something:  the  rich  man 
can  give  of  the  abundance  with  which  it  has  pleased 
Providence  specially  to  favour  him:  the  poor  man 
with  his  slender  savings  need  have  no  fear  for  the 
poverty  of  his  gift —  Let  him  give  all:  it  will  be 
accepted.  Those  of  us  who,  like  yourself,  my  dear 
brother — and  I  say  it  in  all  modesty,  perhaps  myself 
— are  in  possession  of  the  endowments  of  learning, 
of  influence,  of  authority — we  can  lend  our  names  to 

[64] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

the  good  work.  As  you  say  so  very  beautifully: 
sacred  obligations. 

By-the-way,  I  don't  think  I  quite  caught  your 
views  as  to  the  probable  cost.  Eh,  what  do  you 
think  ? 

MANSON.  I  think  that  should  depend  upon  the 
obligations;  and  then,  of  course,  the  sacredness  might 
count  for  something. 

BISHOP.  Yes,  yes,  we've  discussed  all  that.  But 
bringing  it  down  to  a  practical  basis:  how  much 
could  we  manage  with  ? 

MANSON.  What  do  you  say  to — everything  you 
have  ? 

BISHOP.  My  dear  sir,  I'm  not  talking  about  my 
self! 

MANSON.  Well — everything  the  others  have  ? 

BISHOP.  My  dear  sir,  they're  not  fools!  Do  dis 
cuss  the  matter  like  a  man  of  the  world! 

MANSON.  God's  not  watching :  let's  give  as  little, 
and  grab  as  much  as  we  can! 

BISHOP.  Ssh!  My  dear  brother!  Remember 
who's  present!  [He  glances  toward  Robert.]  How 
ever  .  .  .  [Coughs.]  We  will  return  to  this  later.  I 
begin  to  understand  you. 

ROBERT.  Yus:  you  think  you  do! 

BISHOP.  At  the  same  time,  I  do  think  we  ought 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

to  come  to  some  general  understanding:  we  must 
count  the  cost.  Now,  from  all  accounts,  you  have 
had  some  experience  of  church-building  out  in  India 
— not  that  I  think  the  extravagance  for  which  you  are 
credited  would  be  either  possible  or  desirable  in  this 
country — oh,  no!  Thank  God,  we  know  how  to 
worship  in  spirit  and  in  truth,  without  the  aid  of 
expensive  buildings!  However,  I  should  like  to  hear 
your  views.  How  did  you  manage  it  ? 

MANSON.  Sacrifice. 

BISHOP.  Of  course,  of  course;  but  practically. 
They  say  it's  an  enormous  concern! 

MANSON.  So  it  is. 

BISHOP.  Well,  what  would  such  an  establishment 
as  that  represent  ?  In  round  numbers,  now  ? 

MANSON  [calmly].  Numberless  millions. 

BISHOP.  Numberless  mil  .  .  .  !  [He  drops  his 
fork.]  My  dear  sir,  absurd! . .  .  Why,  the  place  must 
be  a  palace — :fit  for  a  king! 

MANSON.  It  is! 

BISHOP.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  one  man 
alone,  on  his  own  naked  credit,  could  obtain  number 
less  millions  for  such  an  object  as  that  ?  How  could 
you  possibly  get  them  together  ? 

MANSON.  They  came  freely  from  every  quarter 
of  the  world. 

[66] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

BISHOP.  On  the  security  of  your  own  name 
alone  ? 

MANSON.  No  other,  I  assure  you. 
BISHOP.  For  Heaven's  sake,  tell  me  all  about  it! 
What  sort  of  a  place  is  it  ? 

MANSON  [seriously].  Are  you  quite  sure  you  can 
hear  ? 

BISHOP.  Perhaps  your  voice  is  not  quite  so  clear 
as  it  was.  However  .  .  . 

[He   wipes    the    inside    of  the    ear- 
trumpet,  and  fixes  it  afresh.] 
Now!     Tell  me  about  your  church. 

[During  the  following  speech  the 
BISHOP  is  occupied  with  his  own 
thoughts:  after  the  first  few  words 
he  makes  no  attempt  at  listening: 
indeed,  the  trumpet  goes  down  to 
the  table  again  in  no  time.  On 
the  other  hand,  ROBERT,  at  first 
apathetic,  gradually  awakens  to  the 
keenest  interest  in  what  MANSON 
says.] 

MANSON  [very  simply].  I  am  afraid  you  may  not 
consider  it  an  altogether  substantial  concern.  It 
has  to  be  seen  in  a  certain  way,  under  certain  condi 
tions.  Some  people  never  see  it  at  all.  You  must 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

understand,  this  is  no  dead  pile  of  stones  and  un 
meaning  timber.  //  is  a  living  thing. 

BISHOP  [in  a  hoarse  whisper,  self-engrossed]. 
Numberless  millions! 

MANSON.  When  you  enter  it  you  hear  a  sound — 
a  sound  as  of  some  mighty  poem  chanted.  Listen 
long  enough,  and  you  will  learn  that  it  is  made  up  of 
the  beating  of  human  hearts,  of  the  nameless  music 
of  men's  souls — that  is,  if  you  have  ears.  If  you 
have  eyes,  you  will  presently  see  the  church  itself — 
a  looming  mystery  of  many  shapes  and  shadows, 
leaping  sheer  from  floor  to  dome.  The  work  of  no 
ordinary  builder! 

BISHOP  [trumpet  down].  On  the  security  of  one 
man's  name! 

MANSON.  The  pillars  of  it  go  up  like  the  brawny 
trunks  of  heroes :  the  sweet  human  flesh  of  men  and 
women  is  moulded  about  its  bulwarks,  strong,  im 
pregnable:  the  faces  of  little  children  laugh  out  from 
every  corner-stone:  the  terrible  spans  and  arches  of 
it  are  the  joined  hands  of  comrades;  and  up  in  the 
heights  and  spaces  there  are  inscribed  the  number 
less  musings  of  all  the  dreamers  of  the  world.  It  is 
yet  building — building  and  built  upon.  Sometimes 
the  work  goes  forward  in  deep  darkness:  sometimes 
in  blinding  light:  now  beneath  the  burden  of  un- 

[68] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

utterable  anguish:  now  to  the  tune  of  a  great  laughter 
and  heroic  shoutings  like  the  cry  of  thunder.  [Softer.] 
Sometimes,  in  the  silence  of  the  night-time,  one  may 
hear  the  tiny  hammerings  of  the  comrades  at  work 
up  in  the  dome — the  comrades  that  have  climbed 
ahead. 

[There  is  a  short  silence,  broken 
only  by  the  champing  jaws  of  the 
BISHOP,  who  has  resumed  his  sau 
sages.  ROBERT  speaks  first.] 

ROBERT  [slowly].  I  think  I  begin  to  understand 
you,  comride:  especially  that  bit  abaht  .  .  .  [his  eyes 
stray  upwards]  .  .  .  the  'ammerins'  an'  the  —  the 
harches — an'  .  .  .  Humph!  I'm  only  an  'og!  .  .  . 

S'pose  there's  no  drain  'ands  wanted  in  that  there 
church  o'  yours  ? 

MANSON.  Drains  are  a  very  important  question 
there  at  present. 

ROBERT.  Why,  I'd  be  cussin'  over  every  stinkin' 
pipe  I  laid. 

MANSON.  I  should  make  that  a  condition,  com 
rade. 

ROBERT  [rising,  he  pulls  off  the  cassock;  goes  to 
fire  for  his  coat:  returns:  drags  it  on].  I  don't  know! 
Things  'av'  got  in  a  bit  of  a  muck  with  me!  I'm 
rather  like  a  drain-pipe  myself. 

[69] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

[With  sudden  inspiration].  There's  one  thing  I 
can  do! 

MANSON.  What's  that? 

ROBERT.  Renahnce  ole  Beelzebub  an'  all  'is 
bloomin'  wirks!  'And  us  that  brarss-band! 

[He     alludes    to    the    ear-trumpet. 
MANSON  obeying,   ROBERT  jabs   it 
into   the   ear   of  the    BISHOP,   who 
seems  quite  surprised.] 
'Ere!     'Av'  you  ever  'eard  of  'ell  ? 
BISHOP.  Of  what  ? 

ROBERT.  'Ell.     [Spelling.]    H,  E,  double  L,  >ell. 
BISHOP.  Well,  my  dear  sir,  I  think  I  ought  to! 
ROBERT.  Then,  go  there!     Aymen  .  .  . 
Now  I'll  go  an*  'av*  a  look  at  our  Bill's  drains, 
damn  'is  eyes! 

[He  goes  out  through  the  main  door, 
repentant.] 

BISHOP.  The  scoundrel!  Did  you  hear  what  he 
said?  I  shall  certainly  report  him  to  his  bishop! 

MANSON.  I  don't  think  I  should.  His  bishop 
doesn't  mind  a  little  plain  speech  now  and  again. 

BISHOP.  A  little  plain  speech!  Do  you  think  it's 
right  for  a  clergyman  to — to  direct  me  to  perdi 
tion  ? 

MANSON.  I  think  you  are  making  a  mistake:  the 


MARY 


THE   SERVANT    IN   THE    HOUSE 

man  who  gave  you  your — direction  is  not  a  clergy 
man.  He's  a  scavenger. 

BISHOP.  A  scavenger! 

MANSON.  Yes — looks  after  drains. 

BISHOP.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  I've  been 
sitting  down  to  breakfast  with  a  common  working- 
man  ? 

MANSON.  Yes;   have  you  never  done  that  before? 

BISHOP.  My  dear  sir,  whatever  do  you  take  me  for  ? 

MANSON.  A  bishop  of  God's  church. 

BISHOP.  Precisely!  Is  it  your  custom  to  break 
fast  with  working-men  ? 

MANSON.  Every  morning.  You  see,  I'm  prej 
udiced:  I  was  one  myself,  once. 

BISHOP.  You?  ,  . 

MANSON.  Yes — a  long  time  ago,  though:  people 
have  forgotten. 

BISHOP.  But,  my  dear  brother,  I  am  perfectly 
sure  you  never  told  people  to  go  to  ... 

MANSON.  Oh  yes,  quite  frequently:  it  would 
shock  you  to  learn  the  language  I  really  did  use. 
Perhaps,  under  the  circumstances,  it  might  be  ad 
visable  to  drop  the  subject  at  this  point. 

BISHOP  [emphatically].  I  most  certainly  agree 
with  you  there!  After  all,  it  is  a  digression  from  the 
purpose  for  which  we  are  here!  .  .  . 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

Let  me  see,  then :  where  were  we  ?  .  .  .  Oh  yes,  I 
remember —  Although,  by  the  way,  it  was  very  ill- 
advised  of  you  to  speak  your  mind  so  openly  in  that 
man's  presence!  However  .  .  . 

To  resume  our — how  shall  I  call  it  ? — our — little 
understanding,  eh  ? 

MANSON.  That  describes  it  most  accurately. 

BISHOP.  Now,  you  said,  Let's  give  as  little,  and 
grab  as  much  as  we  can.  Of  course,  that  is  a  playful 
way  of  putting  it;  but  between  ourselves,  it  expresses 
my  sentiments  exactly. 

MANSON.  I  knew  that  when  I  said  it. 

BISHOP  [delighted].  My  dear  brother,  your  com 
prehension  makes  my  heart  warm.  I  trust  our  re 
lations  may  always  remain  as  warm. 

MANSON.  Oh,  warmer,  warmer! 

BISHOP.  Very  well  then,  to  business!  I  tell  you, 
candidly,  I  agree  with  you,  that  there  is  no  necessity 
for  sinking  anything  of  our  own  in  the  concern:  noth 
ing  ever  comes  of  that  sort  of  reckless  generosity! 
If  people  want  a  church,  let  them  make  some  sac 
rifice  for  it!  Why  should  we  do  anything? 

I  am  sure  you  will  appreciate  my  candour  ? 

MANSON.  At  its  full  value.     Go  on. 

BISHOP.  At  the  same  time,  there  is  no  reason  why 
we  should  throw  cold  water  upon  the  project.  On 

[72] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

the  contrary,  we  might  promote  it,  encourage  it, 
even  lend  it  the  influence  of  our  patronage  and  our 
names.  But  on  one  understanding! 

MANSON.  And  that  ? 

BISHOP.  That  it  is  extended — imperialised,  so  to 
speak:  that  it  is  made  the  vehicle  of  a  much  vaster, 
of  a  much  more  momentous  project  behind  it! 

MANSON.  You  interest  me  intensely.     Explain. 

BISHOP.  I  will. 

[He  looks  around  to  assure  himself 
that  they  are  alone.] 

There  is  in  existence  a  society,  a  very  influential 
society,  in  which  I  happen  to  have  an  interest — very 
great  interest.  Hm!  I  am  one  of  the  directors. 

I  may  say  that  it  is  already  very  well  established, 
financially;  but  it  is  always  open  to  consider  the — 
extension  of  its  influence  in  that  way. 

MANSON.  And  the  name  of  the  society  ? 

BISHOP.  Rather  long,  but  I  trust  explicit.  It  is 
called  "The  Society  for  the  Promotion  and  Preserva 
tion  of  Emoluments  for  the  Higher  Clergy." 

MANSON.  I  do  not  seem  to  have  heard  it  named 
before. 

BISHOP.  Well,  no:  its  movements  have  always 
been  characterised  by  a  certain  modesty.  It  is  an 
invisible  society,  so  to  speak;  but  I  can  assure  you 

[73] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

its  principles  are  very  clearly  understood — among 
the  parties  most  concerned. 

MANSON.  And  your  project  ? 

BISHOP.  Affiliate  the  subsidiary  question  of  the 
building  of  the  Church,  with  the  larger  interests  of 
the  Society. 

MANSON.  Yes,  but  since  people  have  already  re 
fused  to  subscribe  to  the  more  trivial  project  .  .  . 

BISHOP.  They  have  not  been  properly  approached. 
My  dear  sir,  in  order  to  awaken  public  generosity, 
it  is  necessary  to  act  like  men  of  the  world :  we  must 
have  names.  People  will  subscribe  to  any  amount, 
if  you  can  only  get  the  right  names. 

That  is  where  you  come  in. 

MANSON.  I!  Do  you  propose  to  place  my  name 
at  the  head  of  your — prospectus  ? 

BISHOP.  My  dear  sir,  invaluable!  Didn't  you  say 
yourself  that  you  brought  in  numberless  millions, 
on  your  own  credit,  out  there  in  India  ?  Why 
shouldn't  you  do  the  same  in  England  ?  Think  of 
your  reputation,  your  achievements,  your  name  for 
sanctity —  Not  a  word,  sir:  I  mean  it!  ...  Why, 
there's  no  end  to  the  amount  it  would  bring  in:  it 
Would  mean  billions! 

Well,  what  do  you  say  ? 

MANSON  [slowly].  Let  us  clearly  understand  one 

[74] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

another.     I  am  to  lend  you  my  name — just  my  name 
— and  you  are  to  do  all  the  rest. 

BISHOP  [quickly].  Oh  yes:  I'd  rather  you  kept  out 
of  the  business  negotiations! 

MANSON.  It  is  rather  a  dangerous  name  to  play 
with! 

BISHOP,  I  take  that  responsibility  entirely  upon 
myself! 

MANSON.  And  when  all's  over  and  done  with, 
what  are  we  going  to  gain  out  of  the  transac 
tion  ? 

BISHOP.  We  shall  have  to  come  to  some  private 
settlement  between  ourselves. 

MANSON.  When  ? 

BISHOP.  Oh,  hereafter. 

MANSON.  Hereafter,  then. 

[Enter  AUNTIE  and  VICAR  by  door 
to  right.] 

AUNTIE  [off].  Leave  him  to  me,  William!  I'll 
soon  settle  the  matter!  [Entering.]  The  man  must 
be  possessed  of  some  evil  spirit!  .  .  . 

Why — it's  my  brother  James!  .  .  . 

[MANSON  has  risen,  and  is  now  the 
butler  once  more.  He  speaks  into 
the  ear-trumpet.] 

MANSON.  Your  sister  and  the  vicar,  my  lord. 

[75] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE    HOUSE 

BISHOP  [behind  table,  rising].  Ah!  Well,  Martha! 
— No,  no,  no,  if  you  please!  [He  restrains  her  ap 
proach.]  Observe  the  retribution  of  an  unchastened 
will.  You  have  never  seen  my  face  for  sixteen  years ! 
However,  like  a  cloud,  I  blot  out  your  transgressions 
from  this  hour! 

And  so  this  is  your  husband  ? — Not  a  word,  sir; 
not  a  single  word! — the  sausages  were  delicious,  and 
your  place  has  been  most  agreeably  occupied  by 
your  brother! 

VICAR.  My  brother!  Then  you  .  .  *  What  do 
you  mean  ? 

BISHOP  [testily].  I  mean  what  I  say,  sir!  Your 
brother,  my  brother,  our  brother  here,  of  course,  our 
Oriental  brother! 

AUNTIE.  James,  you  are  making  a  mistake:  this 
is  our  new  butler — our  Indian  butler. 

BISHOP.  Your  Indian — WHAT? 

[He  stands  cogitating  horribly  until 
the  end  of  the  act,  facing  towards 
MANSON.] 

AUNTIE.  What  has  made  him  like  this  ?  He  seems 
possessed! 

MANSON.  He  is!  .  .  . 

I  have  just  been  having  some  trouble  with  another 
devil,  ma'am. 

[76] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

AUNTIE.  Meaning,  of  course  .  .  . 

What  has  become  of  him  ? 

MANSON  [with  his  eye].  He  is  cast  out  forever. 

AUNTIE.  Where  is  he  now  ? 

MANSON.  He  walks  through  dry  places  seeking — 
[he  probes  her  soul] — other  habitations. 

AUNTIE.  Manson!    This  is  your  doing!    Oh,  you 
have  saved  us! 

MANSON.  I  am  trying  to,  ma'am;  but,  God  knows, 
you  make  it  rather  difficult! 

[A  change  comes  over  her  face,  as 
the  curtaia  slowly  falls.jj 


THE    THIRD    ACT 


THE     THIRD     ACT 


As  the  curtain  rises,  the  scene  and  situation  remain 
unchanged;  but  attention  now  centres  in  the  Bishop,  who 
appears  to  be  struggling  apoplectically  for  speech. 

BISHOP  [bursting].  Before  we  proceed  a  step  fur 
ther,  I  have  a  most  extraordinary  request  to  make! 
The  fact  is,  you  interrupted  me  in  the  middle  of  a 
most  engrossing  spiritual  discussion  with  my  .  .  . 
that  is  to  say,  with  your  ...  in  short,  with  that  person 
standing  over  there!  My  request  is,  that  I  be  per 
mitted  a  few  minutes  further  conversation  with  him 
— alone,  and  at  once! 

ALL.  )  With  Manson!  .  .  . 

MANSON.    /  With  me! ... 

BISHOP.  Not  a  word!  I  know  my  request  will 
appear  singular — most  singular!  But  I  assure  you 
it  is  most  necessary.  The  peace,  the  security  of 
a  human  soul  depends  upon  it!  Come,  sir!  Where 
shall  we  go  ? 

MANSON.  Have  I  your  permission,  ma'am  ? 

AUNTIE.  Certainly;  but  it  is  most  extraordinary! 
[81] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE    HOUSE 

MANSON  [crossing].  Then  I  think  this  way,  my 
lord,  in  the  drawing-room  .  .  .  [He  leads  the  way.] 

BISHOP  [following].  And  you  may  be  sure,  my 
good  fellow,  I  will  give  anything — I  say,  anything— 
to  remedy  your  misapprehensions!  Hm! 

[They  go  into  the  drawing-room, 
right,  MANSON  holding  the  door  for 
the  other  to  pass.] 

VICAR.  Martha!     It's  no  use!     I  can't  do  it! 

AUNTIE  [preoccupied].  Can't  do  what,  William? 

VICAR.  Behave  towards  that  man  like  a  Christian! 
He  stirs  some  nameless  devil  like  murder  in  my 
heart!  I  want  to  clutch  him  by  the  throat,  as  I 
would  some  noisome  beast,  and  strangle  him! 

AUNTIE  [slowly].  He  is  greatly  changed! 

VICAR.  It  is  you  who  have  changed,  Martha.  You 
see  him  now  with  different  eyes. 

AUNTIE.  Do  I  ?     I  wonder!  .  .  . 

VICAR.  After  all,  why  should  we  invite  him  here  ? 
Why  should  we  be  civil  to  him  ?  What  possible 
kinship  can  there  be  between  us  ?  As  for  his  filthy 
money — how  did  he  scrape  it  together  ?  How  did 
he  come  by  it  ?  ... 

AUNTIE.  Yes,  William,  that's  true,  but  the  oppor 
tunity  of  turning  it  to  God's  service  .  .  . 

VICAR.  Do  you  think    any   blessing   is   going  to 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

fall  upon  a  church  whose  every  stone  is  reeking 
with  the  bloody  sweat  and  anguish  of  the  human 
creatures  whom  the  wealth  of  men  like  that  has 
driven  to  despair  ?  Shall  we  base  God's  altar  in 
the  bones  of  harlots,  plaster  it  up  with  the  slime  of 
sweating-dens  and  slums,  give  it  over  for  a  gaming 
table  to  the  dice  of  gamblers  and  of  thieves  ? 

AUNTIE.  Why  will  you  exaggerate,  my  dear  ? — 
It  is  not  as  bad  as  that.  Why  don't  you  compose 
yourself  and  try  and  be  contented  and  —  and 
happy  ? 

VICAR.  How  can  I  be  happy,  and  that  man  poison 
ing  the  air  I  breathe  ? 

AUNTIE.  You  are  not  always  like  this,  dear!  .  .  . 

VICAR.  Happy!  How  can  I  be  happy,  and  my 
brother  Robert  what  I  have  made  him! 

AUNTIE,  We  are  not  talking  of  Robert:  we  are 
talking  of  you!  Think  of  our  love,  William — our 
great  and  beautiful  love!  Isn't  that  something  to 
make  you  happy  ? 

VICAR.  Our  love  ?  It's  well  you  mention  it. 
That  question  had  better  be  faced,  too!  Our  love! 
Well,  what  of  it  ?  What  is  love  ? 

AUNTIE.  Oh,  William,  you  know  .  .  . 

VICAR.  Is  love  a  murderer?  Does  love  go  roam 
ing  about  the  world  like  Satan,  to  slay  men's  souls  ? 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

AUNTIE.  Oh,  now  you're  exaggerating  again! 
What  do  you  mean  ? 

VICAR.  I  mean  my  brother  Robert!  What  has 
love  done  for  him  ? 

AUNTIE.  Oh,  Robert,  Robert — I'm  sick  to  death 
of  Robert!  Why  can't  you  think  of  yourself? 

VICAR.  Well,  I  will!  What  has  love  done  for 
me? 

AUNTIE.  William!  .  .  . 

[The    slightest    pause.     The     scene 
takes  on  another  complexion.] 

VICAR.  Do  you  remember  that  day  when  I  first 
came  to  you  and  told  you  of  my  love  ?  Did  I  lie  to 
you  ?  Did  I  try  to  hide  things  ?  Did  I  despise  my 
birth  ?  Did  you  ? 

AUNTIE.  No,  no,  William,  I  loved  you:  I  told 
you  so. 

VICAR.  Did  you  mind  the  severance  from  your 
family  because  of  me  ? 

AUNTIE.  Didn't  I  always  say  that  I  was  proud  to 
be  able  to  give  up  so  much  for  you,  William  ?  .  .  . 

VICAR.  Yes,  and  then  what  followed  ?  Having 
given  up  so  much  for  me,  what  followed  ? 

AUNTIE.  My  dear,  circumstances  were  too  strong 
for  us!  Can't  you  see?  You  were  not  made  to 
live  out  your  life  in  any  little  odd  hole  and  corner  of 

[84] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

the  world!  There  was  your  reputation,  your  fame: 
you  began  to  be  known  as  an  author,  a  scholar,  a 
wonderful  preacher —  All  this  required  position, 
influence,  social  prestige.  You  don't  think  I  was 
ambitious  for  myself:  it  was  for  you. 

VICAR.  For  me — yes!  And  how  do  you  imagine 
I  have  benefited  by  all  your  scheming,  your  con 
triving,  your  compromising,  your  .  .  „ 

AUNTIE.  In  the  way  I  willed!  I  am  glad  of  it!  I 
worked  for  that — and  I  won!  .  .  . 

Well,  what  are  you  troubling  about  now  ? 

VICAR  [slowly].  I  am  thinking  of  the  fact  that  there 
has  been  no  child  to  bless  our  marriage,  Martha — 
that  is,  no  child  of  our  very  own,  no  child  whose  love 
we  have  not  stolen. 

AUNTIE.  My  dear  .  .  . 

VICAR.  We  have  spoken  about  it  sometimes, 
haven't  we?  Or,  rather — not  spoken! 

AUNTIE.  William,  why  will  you  think  of  these 
things  ? 

VICAR.  In  those  first  days,  dearest,  I  brought  you 
two  children  of  our  own  to  cherish,  little  unborn 
souls  crying  for  you  to  mother  them — •  You  have 
fostered  only  the  one.  That  one  is  called  the  Scholar. 
Shall  I  tell  you  the  name  of  the  other  ? 

AUNTIE  [after  a  moment].  Yes  .  .  . 
[85] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

VICAR.  I  hardly  know:  I  hardly  dare  to  name 
him;  but  perhaps  it  was — the  Saint. 

AUNTIE.  What  I  have  done,  William,  has  been 
done  for  love  of  you — you  only — you  only  in  the 
world! 

VICAR.  Yes:  that's  what  I  mean! 

[The  thought  troubles  her  for  a  mo 
ment:  then  she  paces  up  and  down 
in  agitated  rebellion.] 

AUNTIE.  No!  I  can't  believe  it!  I  can't  think 
that  love  is  as  wrong  as  you  say! 

VICAR.  Love  is  a  spirit  of  many  shapes  and  shad 
ows:  a  spirit  of  fire  and  darkness — a  minister  of 
heaven  and  hell :  Sometimes  I  think  the  very  damned 
know  love — in  a  way.  It  can  inform  men's  souls 
with  the  gladness  of  high  archangels,  or  possess  them 
with  the  despair  of  devils! 

[She  suddenly  stands  still,  struck  by 
the  echo  in  his  last  phrase.| 
Yes  ?  .  .  . 

AUNTIE.  I  was  wondering  .  .  . 
Wondering  what  Manson  meant  just  now. 
VICAR.  When? 

AUNTIE.  When  he  spoke  about  your  brother  Robert. 
VICAR.     I  think  he  made  it  clear.     He  said  we 
were — rid  of  him  forever! 

[86J 


ROBERT 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

AUNTIE  [thoughtfully].  Ye-es  .  .  . 

William,  I  begin  to  fear  that  man. 

VICAR.  Whom — Robert  ? 

AUNTIE.  No,  Manson. 

[Re-enter  MANSON  from  door,  right. 
He  carries  a  five-pound  note  in  his 
hand.] 

MANSON.  His  lordship  will  be  glad  to  see  you. 

AUNTIE.  Very  well,   Manson.     Why,  what  have 
you  there  ? 

MANSON.  A  remedy  for  misapprehension,  ma'am. 

AUNTIE.  It's  a  five-pound  note. 

MANSON.  Yes. 

AUNTIE.  Come,  William. 

[She  goes  to  the  drawing-room  door, 
her  head  anxiously  turned  towards 
MANSON.] 

VICAR  [at  the  door].  What  are  we  going  to  do, 
Martha  ? 

AUNTIE.  I  don't  know:   God  help  me,  I  can't  see 
the  way! 

[They  both  go  out,  MANSON  watch 
ing  them.  He  then  moves  up  to 
the  fire,  and  burns  the  five-pound 
note.  He  watches  the  flames  leap 
up  as  he  speaks.] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

MANSON.  Thou  givest  thy  mouth  to  evil,  and  thy 
tongue  frarneth  deceit.  Thou  sittest  and  speakest 
against  thy  brother:  thou  slanderest  thine  own  moth- 
ers  son.  These  things  hast  thou  done,  and  I  kept 
silence:  thou  thoughtest  that  I  was  altogether  such  an 
one  as  thyself:  but  I  will  reprove  thee,  and  set  them  in 
order  before  thine  eyes.1 

[He  comes  down  to  the  middle  of 
the  room.  MARY  enters  eagerly. 
Seeing  him  alone,  she  gives  a  little 
cry  of  gladness.] 

MARY.  Oh,  how  jolly!    Where  are  they? 
MANSON.  In  the  next  room. 
MARY.  Ah!    AH! 

[She  comes  to  his  out-stretched  arms. 
He  folds  her  to  his  heart,  facing  the 
audience.] 

[Looking  up  into  his  face.]  Isn't  it  a  great 
secret?  What  shall  I  call  you,  now  we  are 
alone  ? 

MANSON.  Ssh!    They  may  hear  you! 
MARY.  If  I  whisper  .  .  . 
MANSON.  They  are  very  near!  .  .  . 
[Disengaging  himself.]  I  must  be  about  my  busi 
ness.     Is  this  the  bell  to  the  kitchen  ? 

1  Psalms  1.  19-21 
[88] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

MARY.  Yes.     Let  me  help  you. 

[MANSON  having  rung  the  bell, 
they  begin  to  remove  the  breakfast 
things.  MARY  employs  herself  with 
the  crumb-scoop.] 

If  auntie  and  uncle  could  see  me  now!  If  they 
only  knew!  I've  kept  the  secret:  I've  told  nobody! . . . 
These  will  do  for  the  birds.  Look,  I'll  take 
them  now.  [She  throws  the  crumbs  out  of  the 
French  windows.]  Poor  little  mites!  [She  returns  to 
the  table.] 

MANSON.  You  are  fond  of  the  birds  ? 
MARY.  Just  love  them!     Don't  you? 
MANSON.  They  are  my  very  good  friends.     Now, 
take  the  cassock.     Fold  it  up  and  put  it  on  the  chair. 
[ROGERS  enters  whilst  he  gives  this 
command.] 

ROGERS.  Well,  I'm  ... 
'Owever,  it's  no  business  of  mine! 
MARY  [brightly].  What's  up  with  you,  Rogers  ? 
ROGERS   [with   reservation].    Nuthin',   miss.     [He 
fetches  the  tray.] 

MARY.  Then  why  look  so  solemn  ? 
ROGERS  [lugubriously].  Ain't  lookin'  solemn,  miss. 
MANSON.  Hold  up  the  tray,  Rogers. 
ROGERS.  Am  'oldin'  it  up,  Mr.  Manson. 
[89] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

MARY  [loading  him  up].  I'm  sure  there  is  some 
thing  the  matter! 

ROGERS.  Well,  since  you  arsk  me,  miss,  it's  the 
goin's  on  in  this  'ouse!  I  never  see  such  a  com- 
plicyted  mass  of  mysteries  and  improbabilities  in 
my  life!  I  shall  'av'  to  give  in  my  notice! 

MARY.  Oh,  Rogers,  that  would  be  dreadful !   Why  ? 

MANSON.  Now  the  cloth,  Mary  .  .  . 

ROGERS.  Cos  why?  That's  why! — What  you're 
doin'  now!  I  likes  people  to  keep  their  proper  sty- 
tion!  I  was  brought  up  middle-clarss  myself,  an' 
taught  to  be'ave  myself  before  my  betters! — No 
offence  to  you,  Mr.  Manson!  [He  says  this  with  a 
jib,  belying  his  words.] 

MARY.  Nonsense,  Rogers!     I  like  helping. 

ROGERS.  My  poor  farver  taught  me.  'E  led  a 
godly,  righteous,  an'  sober  life.  'E  was  a  grocer. 

MANSON.  Come,  Rogers.  Take  them  to  the 
kitchen. 

[ROGERS  obeys  with  some  asperity 
of  mien.  At  the  door  he  delivers  a 
Parthian  shot.] 

ROGERS.  If  my  poor  farver  could  see  what  I've 
seen  to-day,  'e  would  roll  over  in  'is  grave! 

[MANSON  opens  the  door  for  him. 
He  goes.] 

[90] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

MARY  [gayly].  Isn't  he  funny  ?  Just  because  his 
silly  old  father  .  .  . 

MANSON.  Ssh!     His  father's  dead,  Mary! 

[There  is  a  sudden  pause.     He  comes 
down  to  her.] 

Well,  have  you  thought  any  more  about  .  .  . 

MARY.  About  wishing  ? — Yes,  lots. 

MANSON.  And  have  you  ?  .  .  . 

MARY.  I  don't  know  what  to  think.  You  see,  I 
never  believed  properly  in  wishing  before.  Wishing 
is  a  dreadfully  difficult  thing,  when  you  really  set 
about  it,  isn't  it  ? 

MANSON.  Yes. 

MARY.  You  see,  ordinary  things  won't  do:  they're 
all  wrong,  somehow.  You'd  feel  a  bit  of  a  sneak  to 
wish  for  them,  wouldn't  you  ? 

MANSON.  Yes. 

MARY.  Even  if  you  got  them,  you  wouldn't  care, 
after  all.  They'd  all  turn  to  dust  and  ashes  in  your 
hand. 

That  last  bit  is  what  Grannie  Durden  said. 

MANSON.  Who's  she  ? 

MARY.  She's  the  poor  old  woman  I've  been  having 
breakfast  with.  Do  you  know,  she  said  a  funny 
thing  about  wishing.  I  must  tell  you  first  that  she's 
quite  blind  and  very  deaf —  Well,  she's  been  wishing 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

ever  so  long  to  see  and  hear;  and  at  last  she  says  she 
can! 

MANSON.  What — see  and  hear  ?  [He  glances  tow 
ards  the  drawing-room.] 

MARY.  Um!  I  must  say,  I  didn't  notice  any 
difference  myself;  but  that's  what  she  said. 

She  agreed  with  you,  that  wishing  was  the  only 
way;  and  if  you  didn't  know  how,  then  you  had  to 
keep  on  wishing  to  wish,  until  you  could. 

MANSON.  And  so  ... 

MARY.  Well,  that's  as  far  as  I've  got. 
[ROGERS  re-enters.] 

MANSON.  Yes,  what  is  it,  Rogers  ? 

ROGERS.  Cook's  compliments,  Mr.  Manson,  and 
might  she  make  so  bold  as  to  request  your  presence 
in  the  kitchen,  seein'  as  she's  'ad  no  orders  for  lunch 
yet.  O'  course,  she  says,  it  will  do  when  you've 
quite  finished  any  private  business  you  may  'av'  in 
the  upper  part  of  the  'ouse! 

[He  delivers  this  with  distinct  hau 
teur.  MANSON,  smiling,  goes  up  to 
him  and  takes  his  head  in  his  hands.] 

MANSON.  Why  do  you  dislike  me  so,  Rogers  ? 

ROGERS  [taken  aback].  Me  ?  Me  dislike  you,  Mr. 
Manson  ?  Oh  no! 

MANSON.  Come  along,  little    comrade. 

[92] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE    HOUSE 

[They  go  out  like  brothers,  MAN- 
SON'S  arm  round  the  lad's  shoulders.] 
[MARY  is  left  seated  on  the  table, 
chuckling  at  the  situation.  Sud 
denly  her  face  becomes  serious 
again:  she  is  lost  in  thought.  After 
a  while  she  speaks  softly  to  herself.] 

MARY.  What  have  I  needed  most  ?    What  have 
I  not  had?  .  .  .Oh!     I  know!  .  .  . 

[Her  face  flames  with  the  sudden 
inspiration.] 

And  I  never  dreamed  of  it  till  now! 

[ROBERT  enters  by  the  main  door. 
The  child  turns  round,  and,  seeing 
him,  gives  a  startled  little  cry.  They 
stand  facing  each  other,  silent.  Pres 
ently  ROBERT  falters.] 

ROBERT.  Beg  pawdon,  miss:  I  ... 

MARY.  Who  are  you  ?    W7hat  are  you  doing  here  ? 

ROBERT.  I'm  .  .  . 

I  was  goin'  ter  see  what's — what's  in  that  room  . . . 

MARY.  If  you  do,  I'll  .  .  . 

[She  moves  swiftly  to  the  bell.] 

ROBERT.  It's   a  mistake,   miss.     PVaps    I'd — I'd 
better  tek  my  'ook. 

MARY.  Stop!  .  .  . 

[93] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

How  dare  you!  Don't  you  know  you're  a  very 
wicked  man  ? 

ROBERT.  Me,  miss  ? 

MARY.  Yes,  you. 

ROBERT.  Yus,  I  know  it. 

MARY  [trying  to  save  the  sinner].  That  isn't  the 
way  to  be  happy,  you  know.  Thieves  are  never 
really  happy  in  their  hearts. 

ROBERT.  Wot's  that  ?  .  .  . 

Do  you  tike  me  for  a  thief,  miss  ?    You  ? .  .  * 

[He  advances  to  the  table :  she  edges 
away.] 

Why  don't  you  arnser? 

MARY.  I  had  rather  not  say. 

ROBERT.  Cos  why  ? 

MARY.  I  don't  want  to  be  unkind. 

[ROBERT    sinks    stricken    into    the 
chair  behind  him.] 

ROBERT.  Oh,  my  Gawd,  my  Gawd! 

MARY  [relenting].  Of  course,  if — if  you're  sorry, 
that  makes  a  difference.  Being  sorry  makes  a  lot 
of  difference.  Doesn't  it  ? 

ROBERT.  Yus,  a  fat  lot! 

MARY.  Only  you  must  never  give  way  to  such  a 
wicked  temptation  again.  Oh,  don't  cry!  [She  goes 
to  him.] 

[94] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

ROBERT.  Oo  is  cryin'  ?  I'm  not  cryin' — not  a 
cryin'  sort!  On'y — you  'adn't  no  right  to  talk  to 
me  like  that,  miss. 

MARY.  Why,  didn't  you  own  .  .  . 

ROBERT.  No,  I  didn't.  It  was  you  as  jumped 
down  my  throat,  an*  took  up  my  words  afore  I  got 
'em  out. 

MARY.  Oh:  I'm  sorry.     Did  I  make  a  mistake  r 

ROBERT.  Yus,  miss — a  whopper. 

MARY.  Then  you're  not  a  ... 

ROBERT.  No,  swelp  me  Gaw —  [He  pulls  him 
self  up.]  I  assure  you,  no.  I'm  a  bit  of  a  low  un; 
but  I  never  come  so  stinkin'  low  as  that. 

You  thought  I  looked  like  one,  all  the  same. 
Didn't  yer,  now  ? 

MARY.  Well,  you  see,  I  thought  you  said  so;  and 
then  there's  your  .  .  . 

ROBERT.  I  know!  You  don't  like  my  mug.  It 
ain't  much  of  a  mug  to  look  at,  is  it  ?  Sort  of  a 
physog  for  a  thief,  eh  ?  See  them  lines  ? — Want  to 
know  what  them  stand  for  ?  That's  drink,  an' 
starvytion,  an'  'ard  work,  an*  a  damned  lonely  life. 

MARY.  Oh,  you  poor  man! 

ROBERT.  Yus,  miss,  I  am. 

MARY.  You  mustn't  say  "  damned,"  you  know. 

ROBERT.  No,  miss. 

[95} 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

MARY.  That's  wicked,  at  any  rate. 

ROBERT.  Yus,  miss. 

MARY.  And  you  owned  yourself  that  you  drank. 
That's  not  very  good,  either. 

ROBERT.  No,  miss. 

MARY.  So,  you  see,  you  are  a  little  bit  naughty, 
after  all,  aren't  you  ? 

ROBERT.  Yus,  miss. 

MARY.  Now,  isn't  it  much  nicer  for  you  to  try  and 
look  at  things  in  this  way  ?  I'm  sure  you  feel  a 
great  deal  better  already. 

Do  you  know — •    Wait  a  moment  .  .  . 

[She  resumes  her  seat,  turning  it 
towards  him,  the  passion  of  salva 
tion  in  her  eyes.] 

Do  you  know,  I'd  like  to  do  you  some  good! 

ROBERT.  You,  miss  ? 

MARY.  Yes,  wouldn't  you  like  me  to  ? 

ROBERT.  You're  the  on'y  person  in  the  world 
I'd — I'd  like  to  see  try,  miss. 

MARY  [glad  in  the  consciousness  of  " being  used"]. 
That's  because  you  know  I'm  interested  in  you,  that 
I  mean  it,  that  I'm  not  trying  to  think  only  of  myself. 

ROBERT  [a  little  stupidly].  Aren't  you,  miss  ? 

MARY.  No:  we  must  always  remember  that  there 
are  other  people  in  the  world  besides  ourselves. 

[96] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE    HOUSE 

[This  coincides  with  his  experience: 
he  says  so.] 

ROBERT.  Yus,  miss,  there  are. 

MARY.  Very  well:  now  I'll  see  what  I  can  do  to 
help  you. 

ROBERT.  Thank  you,  miss. 

MARY.  Now,  don't  you  think,  if  you  were  really 
to  wish  very  hard,  it  would  make  things  better  for 
you  ? 

ROBERT.  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  miss. 

MARY.  Well,  it's  like  this:  if  you  only  wish  very 
very  hard,  everything  comes  true. 

ROBERT.  Wot  /  want,  ain't  no  use  wishing  for! 

MARY.  It  doesn't  matter  what  it  is!  Anything 
you  like!  It  will  all  happen! 

ROBERT.  Blimey,  wot's  the  good  o*  talkin'  ? 

MARY.  Oh,  wouldn't  you  like  to  help  to  spin  the 
fairy-tale  ? 

ROBERT  [roughly].  I  don't  believe  in  no  fairy 
tales! 

MARY.  I  do!  I  don't  believe  there's  anything 
else  in  the  world,  if  we  only  knew!  And  that's  why 
I'm  wishing!  I'm  wishing  now!  I'm  wishing  hard! 

ROBERT  [passionately].  So  am  I,  Gawd  'elp  me! 
But  it's  no  use! 

MARY.  It  is!  It  is!  What  are  you  wishing  for? 
197] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

ROBERT.  Never  you  mind!    Summat  as  impossi 
ble  as — fairy-tales! 

MARY.  So's   mine!     That's   what   it   has   to   be! 
Mine's  the  most  impossible  thing  in  the  world! 
ROBERT.  Not  more  than  mine! 
MARY.  What's  yours  r 
ROBERT.  What's  yours  ? 
MARY.  /  want  my  father! 
ROBERT.  I  WANT  MY  LITTLE  KID! 

[There  is  a  second's  pause.] 
MARY.  Your — what  ?  .  .  . 
ROBERT  [brokenly].  My — daughter. 
MARY.  Oh!  ... 

[She   goes   towards   him:    they  face 

each  other.] 
HSoftly.3  Is  she  dead  ? 

[He  stands  looking  at  her.] 
Is  she  ? 

[He  turns  away  from  her.] 
ROBERT.  Fur  as  I  am  concerned — yus. 
MARY.  What  do  you  mean  ?    Isn't  she  dead  ? 
ROBERT.  She's  alive,  right  enough. 
MARY.  Perhaps — perhaps  she  ran  away?  .  .  . 
ROBERT.  She  got  took. 
MARY.  How  do  you  mean— gypsies  ? 
ROBERT.  I  give  'er  up.     'Ad  to. 

[98] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOjJSE 

MARY.  Why? 

ROBERT.  Look  at  me!  ... 

That — an'  the  drink,  an'  the  low  wages,  an'  my 
ole  woman  dyin'!  That's  why  I  give  'er  up. 

MARY.  Where  is  she  now  ? 

ROBERT.  Never  you  mind.  She's  bein'  looked 
arfter. 

MARY.  By  whom  ? 

ROBERT.  By  people  as  I've  allus  'ated  like  poison! 

MARY.  Why,  aren't  they  kind  to  her  ? 

ROBERT.  Yus:  they've  made  'er  summat,  as  I 
couldn't  'a*  done. 

MARY.  Then  why  do  you  hate  them  ? 

ROBERT.  I  don't  any  longer.  I  'ates  myself,  I 
'ates  the  world  I  live  in,  I  'ates  the  bloomin'  muck  'ole 
I've  landed  into! 

MARY.  Your  wife's  dead,  you  say  ? 

ROBERT.  Yus. 

MARY.  What  would  she  think  about  it  all  ? 

ROBERT  [hollowly,  without  variation].  I  don't 
know:  I  don't  know:  I  don't  know. 

[MARY  sits   down   beside  him.] 

MARY  [thoughtfully].  Isn't  it  strange — both  our 
wishes  alike!  You  want  your  little  girl;  and  I,  my 
father! 

ROBERT.  What  sort  of  a  ... 
[99] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

MARY.  Yes? 

ROBERT.  What  sort  of  a  bloke  might  your  father 
be,  miss  ? 

MARY.  I  don't  know.     I  have  never  seen  him. 

ROBERT.  Got  no  idea  ?  Never  —  'eard  tell  of 
'im? 

MARY.  Never. 

ROBERT.  'Aven't  thought  of 'im  yourself,  I  s'pose  ? 
Wasn't  particular  worth  while,  eh  ? 

MARY.  It's  not  that.  I've  been  selfish.  I  never 
thought  anything  about  him  until  to-day. 

ROBERT.  What  made  you  think  of  'im — to-day  ? 

MARY.  I  can't  quite  say.     At  least  .  .  . 

ROBERT.  Mebbe  'e  wrote — sent  a  telingram  or 
summat,  eh  ? — t'  say  as  'e  was  comin'  ? 

MARY  [quickly].  Oh  no:  he  never  writes:  we  never 
hear  from  him.  That's  perhaps  a  bit  selfish  of  him, 
too,  isn't  it  ? 

ROBERT  [after  a  moment].  Looks  like  it,  don't  it  ? 

MARY.  But  I  don't  think  he  can  be  really  selfish, 
after  all. 

ROBERT  [with  a  ray  of  brightness].  Cos  why  ? 

MARY.  Because  he  must  be  rather  like  my  Uncle 
William  and  Uncle  Joshua. 

[He  looks  at  her  curiously .J 

ROBERT.  Like  your  .  .  . 

[100] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

MARY.  Yes — they're  his  brothers,  you  know. 
This  is  Uncle  William's  house. 

ROBERT.  Yes,  but  what  do  you  know  about  .  .  . 

MARY.  About  Uncle  Joshua  ?  Well,  I  happen  to 
know  a  good  deal  more  than  I  can  say.  It's  a 
secret. 

ROBERT.  S'pose  your  Uncle  William  spoke  to  you 
about  'im  ? 

MARY.  Well,  yes,  Uncle  William  spoke  about  him, 
too. 

ROBERT.  But  never  about  your  father? 

MARY.  Oh  no,  never. 

ROBERT.  Why,  miss  ? 

MARY  [slowly].  I — don't — know. 

ROBERT.  P'r'aps  'e  ain't — good  enough — to  be — 
—to  be  the  brother  of  your  Uncle  William — and— 
Uncle — Joshua — eh,  miss  ? 

MARY.  Oh,  I  can't  think  that! 

ROBERT.  Why  not,  miss  ?  Three  good  brothers 
in  a  family  don't  scarcely  seem  possible — not  as 
families  go — do  they,  miss  ? 

MARY.  You  mustn't  talk  like  that!  A  father  must 
be  much — much  better  than  anybody  else! 

ROBERT.  But  s'pose,  miss — s'pose  'e  ain't  .  .  . 

MARY.  He  is!  I  know  it!  Why,  that's  what  I'm 
wishing!  .  .  . 

I  10!] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

ROBERT.  PYaps  it  ain't  altogether  'is  fault,  miss! ... 

MARY.  Oh,  don't!     Don't  .  .  . 

ROBERT.  Things  may  'a*  bin  agin  'im,  miss!  .  .  . 

MARY.  Oh,  you  make  me  so  unhappy!  .  .  . 

ROBERT.  P'r'aps  'e's  'ad  a  'ard  life — a  bitter  'ard 
life — same  as  I  'av',  miss  .  .  .  [He  breaks  down.] 

MARY.  Ssh!     Please!     Please!  .  .  . 

I  can  quite  understand:  indeed,  indeed,  I  can! 
I'm  sorry — oh,  so  sorry  for  you.  You  are  thinking 
of  yourself  and  of  your  own  little  girl — the  little  girl 
who  doesn't  know  what  you  have  been  telling  me. 
Don't  be  miserable!  I'm  sure  it  will  all  turn  out 
right  in  the  end— things  always  do;  far  better  than 
you  dream!  Only  .  .  .  don't  take  away  my  little 
dream! 

[She  turns  away  her  face.     ROBERT 
rises  heavily.] 

ROBERT.  All  right,  miss  —  I  won't:  swelp  me 
Gawd,  I  won't.  Don't  cry,  miss.  Don't,  miss! 
Breaks  my  'eart — after  all  you've  done  for  me.  I  ort 
never  to  'a'  bin  born — mekin'  you  cry!  Thank  you 
kindly,  miss:  thank  you  very  kindly.  I'll — I'll  tek 
my  'ook. 

MARY.  Oh,  but  I'm  so  sorry  for  you! 

ROBERT.  Thank  you,  miss. 

MARY.  I  did  so  want  to  help  you. 

[102] 


ROGERS 


:"  •  .":*•.:•:  ; 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

ROBERT.  You  'av',  miss. 

MARY.  Before  you  go,  won't  you  tell  me  your 
name  ?     Who  are  you  ? 
ROBERT.  I  ... 

I  got  no  name  worth  speakin'  of,  miss:  I'm — 
just  the  bloke  wot's  a-lookin'  arter  the  drains. 
Good-bye,  miss. 

[At  the  door,  he  turns.] 
Sorry  I  used  bad  words,  miss. 

[She    runs    to    him    and    offers    her 

hand.     He  takes  it.] 
MARY.  Good-bye. 
ROBERT.  Good-bye,  miss. 

[He  goes  out.] 

[She  shuts  the  door  after  him,  and 

turns  a  wretched  little  face  towards 

the  audience  as  the  curtain  falls.] 


THE     FOURTH     ACT 


THE     FOURTH     ACT 


As  the  curtain  rises,  the  scene  and  situation  remain  un 
changed.  After  a  moment,  Mary  comes  down  to  the  settee, 
left,  and  buries  her  face  in  the  cushions,  weeping.  Shortly, 
the  handle  of  the  drawing-room  door  is  turned,  and  from 
within  there  emerges  a  murmur  of  voices,  the  Vicar's 
uppermost. 

VICAR  [within].  Very  well,  then,  after  you  have 

finished  your  letters!  .  .  . 

[The  voices  continue  confusedly: 
MARY  rises  quickly  and  goes  into 
the  garden.] 

[The  VICAR  enters  and  goes  to  the 
mantel-piece  weariedly:    a    moment 
later,  AUNTIE.] 
BISHOP   [within].  I   shall   only   be   about  twenty 

minutes. 

AUNTIE  [entering].  All  right,  don't  hurry,  James: 

you  have  all  the  morning. 

[She  closes  the  door  upon  the  BISH 
OP'S  grunts,  and  comes  to  the  mid 
dle  of  the  room.] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE    HOUSE 

VICAR.  Hm!     When  he  has  finished  his  letters! 

AUNTIE.  Yes,  things  seem  to  be  shaping  better 
than  we  thought,  William.  Perhaps  we  have  a  little 
misjudged  him. 

[He  looks  at  her  curiously.] 

To  think,  my  dear,  that  the  rebuilding  of  the 
church  is  becoming  possible  at  last!  All  your  hopes, 
all  your  enthusiasms,  about  to  be  realised!  Now, 
it  only  remains  to  gain  your  brother  Joshua's  ap 
proval  and  help,  and  the  scheme  is  complete! 

VICAR.  Supposing  he  —  doesn't  approve  of  the 
scheme  ? 

AUNTIE.  My  dear,  he  must  approve:  he  will  see 
the  advantages  at  once.  I  think  James  made  that 
perfectly  clear!  .  .  . 

And  then,  look  at  the  opportunities  it  creates  for 
you!  Not  only  the  church,  William,  the  beautiful 
big  church  of  your  dreams,  with  the  great  spires  and 
flashing  crosses  and  glorious  windows;  but  a  much 
larger  sphere  of  usefulness  than  you  ever  dared  to 
dream!  Think  of  your  work,  William,  of  your  great 
gifts — even  James  had  to  acknowledge  them,  didn't 
he  ? — Think  of  the  influence  for  good  you  will  be 
able  to  wield!  Ah!  And  then  I  shall  see  my  be 
loved,  himself  again  —  No  more  worry,  no  more 
feverish  nights  and  days,  none  of  the  wretched  frets 

[108] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE    HOUSE 

and  fancies  that  have  been  troubling  him  all  this 
morning;  but  the  great  Scholar  and  Saint  again,  the 
master  of  men's  souls,  the  priest  in  the  congregation! 

VICAR.  Suppose  you  try  and  forget  me  for  a  mo 
ment.  Do  you  think  you  can  ? 

AUNTIE.  William,  that's  unkind!   Of  course  I  can't. 

VICAR.  It  might  mean  the  salvation  of  my  soul. 

AUNTIE.  Oh,  William!  Now  you're  going  to  be 
gin  to  worry  again! 

VICAR.  Oh  no:  I'm  quite  calm.  Your  brother's 
powers  of  reasoning  have  left  me  philosophical.  .  .  . 

Tell  me,  are  you  quite  sure  that  you  have  grasped 
the  full  meaning  of  his  project  ? 

AUNTIE.  Of  course!  You  think  no  one  can  under 
stand  a  simple  business  dealing  but  men!  Women 
are  every  bit  as  clever! 

VICAR.  Well,  then,  this  project:  what  was  it? 

AUNTIE.  James  explained  clearly  enough:  the 
affiliation  of  your  brother's  scheme  with  that  of  the 
society  he  mentioned. 

VICAR.  Yes — what  society? 

AUNTIE.  The  Society  for  the  Extension  of  Greater 
Usefulness  among  the  Clergy.  ...  It  was  an  admirable 
suggestion — one  that  ought  to  appeal  particularly 
to  you.  Haven't  you  always  said,  yourself,  that  if 
only  you  had  enough  money  to  ... 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

VICAR.  Did  you  happen  to  realise  his  explanation 
as  to  the  constitution  of  the  society  ? 

AUNTIE.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  wasn't  listening  just 
then :  I  was  thinking  of  you. 

VICAR.  The  -financial  possibilities  of  the  scheme — 
Did  his  eloquence  on  that  point  escape  you  ? 

AUNTIE.  Figures  always  bore  me,  and  James  uses 
dreadfully  long  words. 

VICAR.  Did  you  hear  nothing  of  profits  ? 

AUNTIE.  I  only  heard  him  say  that  you  were 
to  ... 

VICAR.  Well,  didn't  it  strike  you  that  throughout 
the  entire  discussion  he  spoke  rather  like  a  trades 
man  ? 

AUNTIE.  My  dear,  you  can't  expect  everybody  to 
be  an  idealist!  Remember,  he's  a  practical  man: 
he's  a  bishop. 

VICAR.  Didn't  it  strike  you  that  there  are  some 
things  in  this  world  which  are  not  to  be  bought  at 
any  price  ? 

AUNTIE.  My  dear  William,  bricks  and  mortar 
require  money:  you  can't  run  a  society  without 
funds! 

VICAR.  Yes,  but  what  of  flesh  and  blood  ?  What 
of  reputation  ?  What  of  a  man's  name  ? 

AUNTIE.  Whatever  do  you  mean  now? 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

VICAR.  Didn't  his  proposal  practically  amount 
to  this:  that  we  should  turn  my  brother  Joshua's 
name  and  reputation  into  a  bogus  Building  Society, 
of  which  the  funds  were  to  be  scraped  together  from 
all  the  naked  bodies  and  the  starving  bellies  of  the 
world,  whilst  we  and  our  thieving  co-directors  should 
collar  all  the  swag  ? 

AUNTIE.  Now,  that's  exactly  where  I  think  you 
are  so  unjust!  Didn't  you  yourself  refuse,  before  he 
spoke  a  word,  to  let  him  put  a  penny  of  his  own  into 
the  concern  ?  I  must  say,  you  were  unnecessarily 
rude  to  him  about  that,  William! 

VICAR.  Yes,  and  didn't  he  jump  at  the  sug 
gestion! 

AUNTIE.  He  offers  to  give  his  patronage,  his  in 
fluence,  his  time.  All  he  asks  of  your  brother  is  his 
bare  name. 

VICAR.  Yes,  and  all  he  asks  of  me  is  simply  my 
eloquence,  my  gift  of  words,  my  power  of  lying 
plausibly! 

AUNTIE.  William,  he  is  offering  you  the  oppor 
tunity  of  your  life! 

VICAR.  Damnation  take  my  life! 

AUNTIE.  William,  why  are  you  so  violent  ? 

VICAR.  Because  violence  is  the  only  way  of  coming 
to  the  truth  between  you  and  me! 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

AUNTIE  [now  thoroughly  afraid].  What  do  you 
mean  by  the  truth,  William  ? 

VICAR.  I  mean  this:  What  is  the  building  of  this 
church  to  you  ?  Are  you  so  mightily  interested  in 
architecture,  in  clerical  usefulness,  in  the  furtherance 
of  God's  work  ? 

AUNTIE.  I  am  interested  in  your  work,  William. 
Do  you  take  me  for  an  atheist  ? 

VICAR.  No:  far  worse — for  an  idolater! 

AUNTIE.  William  .  .  . 

VICAR.  What  else  but  idolatry  is  this  precious 
husband-worship  you  have  set  up  in  your  heart — 
you  and  all  the  women  of  your  kind  ?  You  barter 
away  your  own  souls  in  the  service  of  it:  you  build 
up  your  idols  in  the  fashion  of  your  own  respectable 
desires:  you  struggle  silently  amongst  yourselves, 
one  against  another,  to  push  your  own  god  foremost 
in  the  miserable  little  pantheon  of  prigs  and  hypo 
crites  you  have  created! 

AUNTIE  [roused].  It  is  for  your  own  good  we 
do  it! 

VICAR.  Our  own  good!  What  have  you  made  of 
me  ?  You  have  plucked  me  down  from  whatever 
native  godhead  I  had  by  gift  of  heaven,  and  hewed 
and  hacked  me  into  the  semblance  of  your  own 
idolatrous  imagination!  By  God,  it  shall  go  on  no 

[112] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

longer!     If  you  have  made  me  less  than  a  man,  at 
least  I  will  prove  myself  to  be  a  priest! 

AUNTIE.  Do  you  call  it  a  priest's  work  to  ... 

VICAR.  It  is  my  work  to  deliver  you  and  me  from 
the  bondage  of  lies!  Can't  you  see,  woman,  that 
God  and  Mammon  are  about  us,  righting  for  our 
souls  ? 

AUNTIE  [determinedly].  Listen  to  me,  William, 
listen  to  me  .  .  . 

VICAR.  I  have  listened  to  you  too  long! 

AUNTIE.  You  would  always  take  my  counsel  be 
fore  .  .  . 

VICAR.  All  that  is  done  with!  I  am  resolved  to 
be  a  free  man  from  this  hour — free  of  lies,  free  of 
love  if  needs  be,  free  even  of  you,  free  of  every 
thing  that  clogs  and  hinders  me  in  the  work  I  have 
to  do!  I  will  do  my  own  deed,  not  yours! 

AUNTIE  [with  deadly  quietness].  If  I  were  not 
certain  of  one  thing,  I  could  never  forgive  you  for 
those  cruel  words:  William,  this  is  some  madness  of 
sin  that  has  seized  you:  it  is  the  temptation  of  the 
devil! 

VICAR.  It  is  the  call  of  God! 

AUNTIE  [still  calmly].  That's  blasphemy,  William! 
But  I  will  save  you — -yes,  I  will — in  spite  of  yourself. 
I  am  stronger  than  you. 

t"3l 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

[They  look  at  each  other  steadily  for 
a  moment,  neither  yielding.] 

VICAR.  Then  I  accept  the  challenge!  It  is  God 
and  I  against  you,  Martha! 

AUNTIE.  God  and  I  against  you,  William. 

VICAR.  So  now — for  my  work! 

AUNTIE  [quietly].  Yes  :  what  are  you  going  to 
do? 

VICAR.  Three  things. 

AUNTIE.  Yes — and  they  ?  .  .  . 

VICAR.  Tell  Mary  everything:  send  for  my  broth 
er,  Robert:  and  then  —  answer  that  monster  in 
there. 

AUNTIE  [fearfully].  William,  you  would  never 
dare!  .  .  . 

VICAR.  Look!  .  .  . 

[MARY  re-enters  from  the  garden.] 

MARY.  Auntie!  Uncle!  I  want  to  speak  to  you 
at  once — both  of  you! 

VICAR.  You  are  just  in  time:  I  wanted  to  speak 
to  you  at  once. 

MARY.  Is  it  important,  uncle  ?  Mine's  dread 
fully  important. 

VICAR.  So  is  mine. 

AUNTIE  [quickly].  Let  the  child  speak,  William. 
Perhaps  .  .  . 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

MARY.  I  hardly  know  how  to  begin.  Perhaps  it's 
only  my  cowardice.  Perhaps  it  isn't  really  dreadful, 
after  all  ... 

AUNTIE  [troubled].  Why,  what  are  you  thinking 
of,  Mary? 

MARY.  It's  about  something  we  have  never  spoken 
of  before;  something  I've  never  been  told. 
VICAR  [searchingly].  Yes  ?  .  .  . 
AUNTIE  [falteringly].  Yes  ?  .  .  . 
MARY.  I  want  to  know  about  my  father. 

[There     is     a     short    silence.     The 
VICAR  looks  at  AUNTIE.] 

VICAR.  Now:  is  God  with  you  or  me,  Martha  ? 
MARY.  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?     Is  it  very 
terrible,  uncle  ? 

[He  stands  silent,  troubled.     MARY 
crosses  him,  going  to  AUNTIE.] 
Auntie  .  .  . 

AUNTIE.  Don't  ask  me,  child:  I  have  nothing  to 
tell  you  about  your  father. 
MARY.  Why,  isn't  he  ... 
AUNTIE.  I  have  nothing  to  tell  you. 
VICAR.  I  have. 
AUNTIE.  William!  .  .  . 
VICAR.  I  have,  I  say!     Come,  sit  here,  Mary. 

[She  sits  to  left  of  him,  on  the  settee. 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

AUNTIE  is  down  stage  on  the  other 
side  of  him.] 

Now!  What  do  you  want  to  know  about  your 
father  ? 

MARY  [passionately].  Everything  there  is  to  know! 

AUNTIE.  William,  this  is  brutal!  .  .  . 

VICAR.  It  is  my  work,  Martha! — God's  work! 
Haven't  I  babbled  in  the  pulpit  long  enough  about 
fatherhood  and  brotherhood,  that  I  should  shirk  His 
irony  when  He  takes  me  at  my  word! 

Now:  what  put  this  thought  into  your  head  to-day  ? 

MARY.  I  don't  know.  I've  been  puzzling  about 
something  all  the  morning;  but  there  was  nothing 
clear.  It  only  came  clear  a  few  minutes  ago — just 
before  I  went  into  the  garden.  But  I  think  it  must 
have  begun  quite  early — before  breakfast,  when  I 
was  talking  to  my — to  Manson. 

AUNTIE.  Manson!  .  .  . 

MARY.  And  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  as  I  was  sitting 
there  by  the  fireplace,  //  came — all  in  a  flash,  you  un 
derstand!  I  found  myself  wishing  for  my  father: 
wondering  why  I  had  never  seen  him:  despising  my 
self  that  I  had  never  thought  of  him  before. 

VICAR.  Well,  what  then  ? 

MARY.  I  tried  to  picture  him  to  myself.  I  imag 
ined  all  that  he  must  be.  I  thought  of  you,  Uncle 

[116] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

William,  and  Uncle  Joshua,  and  of  all  the  good  and 
noble  men  I  had  ever  seen  or  heard  of  in  my  life; 
but  still — that  wasn't  quite  like  a  father,  was  it  ?  I 
thought  a  father  must  be  much,  much  better  than 
anything  else  in  the  world!  He  must  be  brave,  he 
must  be  beautiful,  he  must  be  good !  I  kept  on  saying 
it  over  and  over  to  myself  like  a  little  song:  he  must 
be  brave,  he  must  be  beautiful,  he  must  be  good! 
[Anxiously.]  That's  true  of  fathers,  isn't  it,  uncle  ? 
Isn't  it? 

VICAR.  A  father  ought  to  be  all  these  things. 

MARY.  And  then  .  .  .  then  .  .  . 

VICAR.  Yes  ?  .  .  . 

MARY.  I  met  a  man,  a  poor  miserable  man — it 
still  seems  like  a  dream,  the  way  I  met  him — and  he 
said  something  dreadful  to  me,  something  that  hurt 
me  terribly.  He  seemed  to  think  that  my  father- 
that  perhaps  my  father — might  be  nothing  of  the 
sort! 

AUNTIE.  Why,  who  was  he — the  man  ? 

MARY.  He  wouldn't  tell  me  his  name:  I  mistook 
him  for  a  thief  at  first;  but  afterwards  I  felt  very,  very 
sorry  for  him.     You  see,  his  case  was  rather  like 
my  own.     He  was  wishing  for  his  little  girl. 
[There  is  a  short  silence.] 

VICAR.  Where  did  you  meet  with  him  ? 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE    HOUSE 

MARY.  Here,  in  this  room. 

AUNTIE.  When  was  this  ? 

MARY.  A  few  minutes  ago — just  before  you  came 
in. 

AUNTIE.  Where  is  he  now  ? 

MARY.  He  said  good-bye.     He  has  gone  away. 

AUNTIE.  For  good  ? 

MARY.  Yes,  I  think  so:  I  understood  him  to  mean 
that. 

VICAR.  Was  he — a  rough-looking  man  ? 

MARY.  Dreadfully;  and  he  swore  once — but  after 
wards  he  said  he  was  sorry  for  that. 

VICAR.  Did  he  frighten  you  at  all  ? 

MARY.  No,  not  exactly  frighten:    you  see,  I  felt 
sorry  for  him. 

VICAR    [slowly].  And    he    wouldn't    tell    you    his 
name  ?  .  .  . 

MARY.  No:  I  asked  him,  but  he  wouldn't. 

[The  VICAR  ponders  this  for  a  mo 
ment.] 

AUNTIE.  Now,  is  it  God  with  you  or  with  me, 
William  ? 

[For  a  moment  this  unnerves  him. 
Then  setting  his  teeth  together,  he 
faces  his  task  stubbornly.] 

VICAR.  Have  you  any  idea  about  this  man  ? 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

MARY.  How  do  you  mean — any  idea  ? 

VICAR.  As  to  why  he  put  this  doubt  into  your  head 
about  your  father. 

MARY.  He  seemed  to  be  thinking  about  himself, 
and  how  unworthy  he  was  of  his  own  little  girl. 

VICAR.  Did  he  say — unworthy  ? 

MARY.  That's  what  I  think  he  meant.  What  he 
said  was  that  perhaps  my  father  wasn't  good  enough 
to  be  your  brother,  uncle.  That's  not  true,  is  it  ? 

VICAR.  No,  by  Heaven!     That's  not  true! 

MARY  [rapturously].  Oh,  I  knew  it,  I  knew  it ! 

VICAR  [in  an  agony].  Stop!  You  don't  under 
stand! 

MARY.  I  understand  quite  enough!  That's  all  I 
wanted  to  know! 

VICAR.  Listen,  child!  Listen!  I  mean  that  it  is 
I  who  am  not  worthy  to  be  called  his  brother, 

AUNTIE.  William,  this  is  absurd! 

MARY  [snuggling  up  to  him].  Isn't  he  a  dear  ? 

VICAR  [freeing  himself].  Listen  to  me,  Mary:  I 
have  something  awful  to  tell  you:  try  and  bear  it 
bravely.  You  will  hate  me  for  it — never  love  me 
again!  .  .  .  No,  listen!  .  .  . 

Supposing  your  father  were— not  what  you  imagine 
him  to  be  ?  ... 

MARY.  Uncle,  didn't  you  just  say  .  .  . 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE    HOUSE 

VICAR.  Supposing  that  wretched  man  you  spoke 
with  just  now  were  right,  after  all!  What  would  you 
say  ? 

MARY.  Uncle!  .  .  . 

VICAR.  Supposing  he  were  one  upon  whom  all 
the  curses  of  the  world  had  been  most  cruelly  visited 
— his  poor  body  scarred  and  graven  out  of  human 
semblance;  his  soul  the  prey  of  hate  and  bitter 
ness;  his  immortal  spirit  tortured  and  twisted  away 
from  every  memory  of  God !  What  would  you 
say  ? 

MARY.  Uncle,  it  would  be  terrible — terrible! 

VICAR.  What  will  you  say,  then,  to  the  man  who 
has  brought  him  to  such  ruin  ?  What  will  you  say 
to  that  man  being  God's  priest  ?  What  word  of 
loathing  have  you  for  the  thief  who  has  stolen  the 
love  of  another  man's  child,  for  the  murderer  who 
has  slain  his  brother's  soul  ? 

MARY.  Uncle,  do  you  mean  ...  do  you  mean  .  .  . 

VICAR.     I  mean  that  I  am  the  man! 

MARY.  You!  .  .  . 

AUNTIE  [passionately].  It  is  not  true!  It  is  a  lie! 
It's  entirely  your  father's  own  fault! 

MARY.  I  don't  understand.  Why  should  Uncle 
William  lie  to  me  ? 

AUNTIE.  He  is  overwrought:   he  is  ill.     It  is  like 

[120] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

your  uncle  William  to  take  upon  himself  another 
man's  wickedness! 

MARY.  Then,  that  is  true,  at  least:  my  father  is  a 
wicked  man!  .  .  . 

AUNTIE.  I  don't  want  to  speak  about  your  father! 

MARY.  He  is  nothing  that  I  have  wished  him  to 
be:  not  brave  .  .  . 

VICAR.  Yes — that  at  least! 

MARY  [turning  towards  him].  Beautiful?  .  .  . 

VICAR.  What  do  you  mean  by  beautiful  ? 

MARY.  You  know  what  I  mean:  What  you  once 
said  God  was,  when  you  called  Him  beautiful. 

VICAR.  I  have  no  right  to  judge  your  father. 
[She  perceives  the  evasion.] 

MARY.  Not  even — good  ?  .  .  . 

VICAR.  He  is  what  I  have  made  him.   I  and  no  other! 
[She  stands  looking  at  him  piteously.] 

AUNTIE.  There  is  another — I!  I  kept  them  apart: 
I  poisoned  your  uncle  against  him :  I  took  you  away 
from  him:  it  was  I  who  kept  you  in  ignorance  of 
your  father! 

MARY.  Why  ?  .  .  . 

AUNTIE.  Because  he  stands  in  the  way  of  my  hus 
band's  happiness!  Because,  even,  he  is  your  father! 
Because  I  hate  him!  I  could  almost  wish  him  dead! 

VICAR.  Martha!  .  .  . 

[121] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

[There  is  a  long  pause.] 

MARY.  Then  I  have  nobody,  now.     It's  no  use 
wishing  any  more. 
AUNTIE.  Mary  .  .  . 
MARY.  No!  ...  I  want  to  be  alone. 

[She  goes  out  into  the  garden.   They 
follow  her  out  with  their  eyes.] 
VICAR.  So!  God  has  revealed  His  partisanship! — 
He  has  beggared  us  both! 

[AUNTIE  considers  this  for  a  moment. 
Then,  with  sudden  determination, 
she  rises.] 

AUNTIE.  I  am  not  going  to  be  beggared  without 
a  struggle  for  it,  William! 

[She  moves  briskly  across  to  the 
bell.] 

VICAR.  What  are  you  going  to  do,  Martha  ? 
AUNTIE,  [flashing  round  passionately,  before  she 
can  ring  the  bell].  Do  you  think  I  am  going  to  stand 
by  and  see  your  life  wrecked — yours  and  that  child's  ? 
VICAR.  We  are  not  the  only  persons  concerned, 
Martha. 

AUNTIE.  As  far  as  I  care,  you  are! 
VICAR.  And  what  of  Robert  ?  .  .  . 
AUNTIE.  Robert!    That's  what  I'm  going  to  see 
to  now! 

[122] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

[She  rings  the  bell.] 

There's  only  one  way  of  dealing  with  a  brute  like 
that! 

VICAR.  What's  that  ? 

AUNTIE.  Pack  him  off  to  Australia,  Africa — any 
where,  so  long  as  we  are  never  pestered  with  him 
again ! 

VICAR.  Do  you  think  you'll  get  him  to  go  ? 

AUNTIE.  Oh,  I'll  find  the  money!  A  drunkard 
like  that  will  do  anything  for  money!  Well,  he  shall 
have  plenty:  perhaps  he'll  drink  himself  to  .  .  . 

VICAR.  By  Heaven,  but  I  say  no! 

AUNTIE.  By  Heaven,  but  I  say  yes!  It's  about 
time  I  took  things  in  hand  again!  Do  you  think 
I'm  going  to  risk  that  child  learning  everything  ? 
She  knows  more  than  enough  already!  Providen 
tially,  she  does  not  know  the  worst! 

VICAR.  And  what  knowledge  do  you  consider 
Providence  has  so  kindly  spared  her  ? 

AUNTIE.  The  knowledge  who  that  man  was! 
She  shall  never  know,  if  I  can  have  my  way!  [She 
rings  the  bell  again,  impatiently.]  Why  doesn't  he 
come  ?  Why  doesn't  he  come  ? 

VICAR.  Who  ? 

AUNTIE.  Manson. 

[Enter  MANSON  by  the  main  door. 
[123] 


THE   SERVANT    IN   THE    HOUSE 

There  is  a  subtle  change  in  the  man 
ner  of  him,  a  look  in  his  eye,  as  of 
the  servant  merging  in  the  master.] 
MANSON.  You  rang. 

AUNTIE.  Yes,  come  in,  Manson.  I  want  to  have 
a  little  confidential  talk  with  you — confidential,  you 
understand. 

MANSON  [eying  her].  If  you  please.  I  expected 
this. 

[He  has  the   air  of  a  judge.     She 
hurries  on,  unheeding.] 

AUNTIE.  Manson,  you  saw  everything.      You  were 
here  when  that  dreadful  creature  arrived. 
MANSON.  Which  ? 

AUNTIE.  Why,    my    husband's    brother,    Robert. 
Didn't  you  tell   me,  William,  that   Manson   heard 
everything  he  said  ? 
VICAR.  Yes. 

AUNTIE.  Then  you  will  know  the  wretched  plight 
we  are  in.  Manson,  it's  terrible.  I  want  your  help. 
By-the-way,  you  have  not  spoken  about  it  to  the 
other  servants  ? 

MANSON.  I  am  always  most  discreet. 
AUNTIE   [touched].  Thank   you,    Manson,   thank 
you:  I  felt  that  I  could  trust  you.     It's  to  prove  my 
trust  that  I've  sent  for  you  now.     Perhaps  I'd  better 

[124] 


THE   SERVANT    IN   THE    HOUSE 

begin  by  explaining  everything  quite  clearly,  so 
that  you  .  .  . 

MANSON.  There  is  no  need.  I  know  everything 
already. 

AUNTIE.  Everything!     How?  .  .  . 

MANSON.  A  certain  gift  of  divination — mine  by 
birth.  And,  besides,  you  forget  that  I  had  a  long 
conversation  with  your  brother-in-law  after  master 
left  the  room. 

AUNTIE.  What!     Whilst  my  brother  was  here? 

MANSON.  Yes:  we  all  three  had  breakfast  together. 

AUNTIE.  Breakfast  together!  Then  James  has 
heard  all ! 

MANSON.  Not  quite  all.  You  may  have  observed 
that  your  brother  is  a  little  deaf. 

AUNTIE.  But  surely—     What  did  he  think  ? 

MANSON.  He  mistook  him  for  your  husband. 

AUNTIE.  My  husband! 

MANSON.  Your  brother  is  also  a  little  blind,  re 
member. 

AUNTIE  [delighted].  Then  James  never  found 
out  ?  .  .  . 

MANSON.  Oh  yes:  I  took  care  to  undeceive  him 
on  the  point. 

AUNTIE.  Good  gracious!     How  did  he  take  it? 

MANSON.  At  first,  a  little  angrily;  but,  after  a  while, 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE    HOUSE 

some  few  poor  words  of  my  own  chanced  to  move 
him  to  more — profitable  meditation. 

AUNTIE.  Manson,  you're  perfectly  wonderful!     I 
respect  you  very,  very  much! 

MANSON.    It    is    not    enough.      I    shall     require 
more. 

AUNTIE  [embarrassed].  Oh,  of  course,  I  shall  be 
glad   to   do   anything  that   .   .    . 

Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?  .  .  . 

MANSON.  I  mean  that  service  such  as  mine  de 
mands  a  greater  recompense! 

AUNTIE.  You  may  be  sure  that  anything  in  rea 
son  .  .  . 

MANSON.  It  must  go  beyond  that! 

AUNTIE.  Well,  what  do  you  ask  ? 

MANSON.  The   uttermost  obedience,  loyalty,  and 
love! 

AUNTIE.     Manson,    how    dare    you!     By    what 
right  .  .  . 

MANSON.  By  my  own  right! 

AUNTIE.  This  is  insolence!     What  right  do  you 
mean  ? 

MANSON.  The  right  of  understanding,  the  right 
of  purpose,  and  the  right  of  will! 

AUNTIE.  You  force  me  to  speak  angrily  to  you; 
Do  you  forget  that  you  are  my  servant  ? 

[126! 


THE    SERVANT    IN   THE    HOUSE 


MANSON.  No!  And,  therefore,  it  is  my  office  to 
command  you  now! 

Sit  down,  and  hear  me  speak! 

VICAR.  He  has  been  sent  to  help  us!  Martha, 
this  is  God! 

MANSON.  Over  here,  please.  [He  points  to  the 
settee.] 

AUNTIE.  I  ...  I  ... 

[MANSON  still  points.  She  wavers 
as  in  a  dream,  and  at  length  moves 
mechanically  across  the  room,  obey 
ing  him.] 

MANSON.  Now,  let  me  tell  you  exactly  why  you 
have  sent  for  me  here.  There  is  a  strange  and 
wretched  turmoil  in  your  soul :  you  have  done  wrong, 
and  you  know  it — but  you  don't  know  all!  You 
would  keep  what  miserable  little  right  you  have 
by  bolstering  it  up  with  further  wrong.  And  you 
have  sent  for  me  to  help  you  in  that  wrong! 

AUNTIE.  How  dare  you  say  that  ? 

MANSON.  Haven't  you  sent  for  me  to  help  you  in 
your  plans  about  his  brother,  Robert  ? 

AUNTIE  [faintly].  What  plans  ?  .  .  . 

MANSON.  The  plan  of  banishing  him  further  from 
your  lives  than  ever!  The  plan  of  providing  for  him! 
The  plan  of  patching  up  his  bitter  wrongs  with  gold ! 

[127] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

AUNTIE.  How  did  you  know  that  ? 

MANSON.  I  know  you!  What,  do  you  think  that 
God's  eyes  are  like  your  brother's — blind  ?  Or  do 
you  think  these  things  can  be  done  in  darkness  with 
out  crying  aloud  to  Heaven  for  light  ? 

AUNTIE.  I  am  here  to  work  my  will,  not  yours! 

MANSON.  What  gain  do  you  hope  to  bring  your 
self  by  that  ? 

AUNTIE.  I  am  not  thinking  of  myself!  I  am 
thinking  only  of  my  husband's  happiness! 

MANSON.  Behold  the  happiness  you  have  already 
brought  him! 

AUNTIE.  There  is  the  child!  It  would  break  her 
heart! 

MANSON.  What  is  her  heart  but  broken  now — by 
you  ? 

AUNTIE.  Robert  himself  would  be  the  first  to  re 
pudiate  any  other  plan. 

MANSON.  Have  you  tried  him  ? 

AUNTIE.  Of  course  not;  but  he  must  see  the  im 
possibility. 

MANSON.  What  impossibility  ? 

AUNTIE.  The  impossibility  of  having  him  here: 
the  impossibility  of  letting  him  see  the  child :  the  im 
possibility  of  him  and  his  brother  ever  meeting  again! 

MANSON.  Is  that  your  only  difficulty  ? 
[128] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE    HOUSE 

AUNTIE.  Only  difficulty!  What,  would  you  have 
me  welcome  him  with  open  arms  ? 

MANSON.  Yes,  and  heart,  too! 

AUNTIE.  Have  him  here,  entertain  him,  treat  him 
as  a  guest  ? 

MANSON.  As  an  honoured  guest! 

AUNTIE.  In  this  house  ? 

MANSON.  This  house. 

AUNTIE.  Good  Heavens!  what  else? 

MANSON.  Sweep  and  garnish  it  throughout,  seek 
out  and  cleanse  its  hidden  corners,  make  it  fair  and 
ready  to  lodge  him  royally  as  a  brother! 

AUNTIE  [desperately].  I  won't  do  it!  I  can't!  I 
can't ! 

MANSON.  With  my  assistance,  you  can! 

VICAR.  Manson,  how  can  we  bring  it  about  ? 

AUNTIE.  I  daren't!     I  daren't! 

VICAR.  I  dare!     I  will! 

AUNTIE.  In  God's  name,  how  is  it  possible  ? 

MANSON.  Make  me  the  lord  and  master  of  this 
house  for  one  little  hour! 

VICAR.  By  Heaven,  yes! 

MANSON.  And  you  ?     You  ?  .  .  . 

[She  falters  a  few  moments:  then, 
utterly  broken  down,  she  whispers, 
feebly.] 

[129] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

AUNTIE.  Yes. 

MANSON.  Then  first  TO  CLEANSE  IT  OF  ITS  ABOMI 
NATIONS! 

[The  BISHOP  enters  from  the  draw 
ing-room.  He  carries  a  letter  in  his 
hand.] 

BISHOP.  Well,  here  is  the  letter  I  have  written  to 
the  secretary  of  our  Society :  I  have  explained  every 
thing  quite  nicely;  and  have  warned  him,  of  course, 
against  doing  anything  definite  in  the  matter  until 
we  have  consulted  your  dear  brother.  Now  .  .  . 
Eh,  what?  Oh'/... 

[MANSON  has  tapped  his  ear,  per 
emptorily:  he  fixes  his  ear-trumpet.] 
MANSON.  I  bear  you  a  message  from  the  master 
of  this  house.     Leave  it. 

BISHOP.  Really,  I Most  extraordinary! 

Hm! 

[He  blows  down  the  ear-trumpet, 
and  afterwards  wipes  it  very  care 
fully  with  his  handkerchief.  MAN- 
SON  stands,  as  though  carven  in  mar 
ble,  waiting  for  him  to  fix  it  again.] 
Now:  again,  please. 

MANSON.  You   are   no   longer  necessary      Leave 
this  house. 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

BISHOP.  You  scoundrel!  You  impudent  scoun 
drel!  You..  .  .  You  ... 

Give  me  back  my  five-pound  note! 

MANSON  [pointing  to  the  fire].  It  is  invested  for 
you. 

BISHOP.  I  will  have  it  back  at  once! 

MANSON.  Hereafter,  was  the  arrangement. 

BISHOP.  Mr.  Smythe!  Where  are  you?  Do  you 
hear  what  this  blackguard  says  ? 

VICAR.  I  endorse  it,  every  word. 

BISHOP.  Martha!  .  .  . 

[She  turns  away  from  him  as  from 
some  horror  of  sin.  The  BISHOP 
stands  dumfounded  for  a  moment 
or  two:  then  he  boils  over.] 

Now  I  see  it  all!  I've  been  trapped,  Fve  been 
tricked!  Martha,  this  is  all  your  doing!  Brought 
me  here  on  a  trumped-up  story  of  relationship  with 
the  Bishop  of  Benares,  to  insult  me!  Oh,  what 
would  that  godly  man  say  if  he  heard  of  it! — And  he 
shall  hear  of  it,  believe  me!  Your  infamy  shall  be 
spread  abroad!  So  this  is  your  revenge,  sir — [he 
turns  to  the  VICAR] — your  revenge  for  the  contumely 
with  which  I  have  very  properly  treated  you,  sir! 
Now  I  understand  why  I  was  made  to  sit  down  and 
eat  sausages  with  a  butler — yes,  sir,  with  a  butler  and 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

a  common  working-man!  Oh!  I  could  die  with 
shame!  You  have  bereft  me  of  all  words!  You  .  . . 
You  .  .  .  You  are  no  scholar,  sir!  And  your  Greek 
is  contemptible!  .  .  . 

[He  crosses  to  AUNTIE.]  Martha!  You  are  no 
sister  of  mine  henceforward!  [Going,  he  returns  to 
her.]  Anathema  maranatha! 

[He  bounces  up  to  the  door,  but 
turns  back  again  for  a  last  word  with 
MANSON.] 

And  I  have  one  word  for  you,  sir!  You  are  a 
scoundrel,  sir — a  cheat,  an  impostor!  And  if  I  could 
have  my  way  with  you,  I  would  have  you  publicly 
whipped :  I  would  visit  you  with  the  utmost  rigour  of 
the  law:  I  would  nail  you  up,  sir,  for  an  example! 

MANSON.  I  have  encountered  similar  hostility  be 
fore,  my  lord — from  gentlemen  very  like  your  lord 
ship.  Allow  me  ... 

[He  opens  the  door,  his  eyes  flash 
ing-] 

BISHOP.  Don't  trouble,  sir.     I  can  get  my  hat  and 

my  stick   and  my  portmanteau  for  myself!     I  can 

do  very  well  without  your  assistance — thank  God! 

[He  stumps  out.     MANSON  closes  the 

door  after  him,  barring  it,  as  it  were, 

with    his    great   left    arm.     He   lifts 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

the  other  arm  slowly,  as  commanding 
silence.  After  a  moment  the  front 
door  is  heard  slamming  noisily.] 
[AUNTIE  sinks,  weeping,  upon  the 
settee.  The  VICAR  goes  over  to 
comfort  her.  The  uplifted  hand  of 
MANSON  assumes  the  BISHOP'S  sign 
of  blessing  as  the  curtain  slowly 
falls.] 


THE     FIFTH     ACT 


THE     FIFTH    ACT 

As  the  curtain  rises,  the  scene  and  situation  remain  un 
changed. 

[There  is  heard  a  Ring  of  the  Bell. 
All  three  turn  their  heads,  alert.] 
VICAR.  If  it's  my  brother  .  .  . 
MANSON.  Which  ? 

VICAR.  I  meant — the  Bishop  of  Benares;   but  .  .  . 
AUNTIE  [hand  on  his  arm,  apprehensively].  Will 
iam  .  .  . 

MANSON.  It  wants  ten  minutes  of  the  time  you 
said  you  expected  him.  [Goes  to  door:  turns.] 
Only  ten  minutes. 

[He     goes    out,    closing    the    door 
softly.] 

VICAR.  Ten  minutes!  .  .  . 

AUNTIE.  We  shall  never  be  able  to  do  it,  William! 
How  can  we  possibly  undo  the  work  of  all  these  years 
in  ten  minutes  ?  It  wants  a  miracle. 

VICAR.  We  must  make  the  attempt,  somehow. 
AUNTIE.  Yes — yes:  how?    Oh,  I  have  been  blind 

[•37] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE    HOUSE 

—blind!  [She  walks  across  the  room  in  agitation.] 
Where  has  he  gone,  I  wonder  ?  We  don't  even  know 
that — where  he  is! 

VICAR  [making  a  movement].  Perhaps  Manson  .  .  . 

AUNTIE.  No,  no,  no:  it  must  be  ourselves  .  .  . 

Ten  minutes! — And  no  assistance  on  his  side:  we 
can't  expect  it,  after  our  treatment  of  him.  He 
will  hate  me  most  of  all :  there's  the  chief  difficulty! . . . 

VICAR.  You  would  say  me,  if  you  had  seen  his  face 
and  heard  his  voice  this  morning! 

AUNTIE.  God  help  us,  God  pity  us! 

VICAR.  Amen  .  .  . 

Then,  there's  the  child,  too!  That  difficulty  must 
be  faced. 

AUNTIE.  Yes — no  escape!  We  shall  have  to  pay 
the  whole  debt,  William:  I  see  that. 

VICAR.  Who  knows!  Perhaps  the  child  will  have 
to  pay  most,  when  all  is  done. 

AUNTIE.  The  innocent  for  the  guilty— yes  .  .  . 
Oh,  William,  William,  can  you  ever  forgive  me  ? 

VICAR.  There  is  much  to  forgive,  both  sides, 
Martha.  My  sin  has  been  greater  than  yours. 
You  have  only  loved  unworthily  in  blindness :  I  have 
seen  clearly  and  been  a  coward. 

[Enter  MARY  from  the  garden.] 

Mary!  .  .  . 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

MARY.  Let  me  speak,  uncle.  I  have  been  think 
ing,  out  there  in  the  garden — thinking  very  hard: 
I've  been  trying  to  put  things  together  again  and 
make  them  straight;  but  it's  still  very  difficult.  Only 
there's  one  thing — I'm  sorry  I  was  unkind  just  now: 
I  didn't  mean  it:  you  are  everything  I  have — every 
thing  I  have  ever  had;  and  as  for  what  uncle  said— 
about  himself,  I  mean — I  can't  believe  it.  No,  I'm 
sure  there's  a  mistake  somewhere;  and  mistakes  can 
always  be  put  right,  if  we  only  help  one  another  and 
mean  it.  Shall  we  try,  uncle  ?  Shall  we,  auntie  ? 

AUNTIE.  If  it's  not  too  late!  .  .  . 

MARY.  It  can't  be  too  late,  auntie  dear,  if  we  all 
wish  very  hard.  I  was  a  coward  to  give  up  wishing. 
That  was  my  sin,  too! 

AUNTIE.  God  knows,  I  wish,  Mary!  .  .  . 

VICAR.  And  I!  ... 

MARY.  And,  indeed,  I  do!  ... 

Now,  I've  been  thinking:  I've  been  trying  to  look 
the  worst  in  the  face.  Supposing  my  father  is  the 
wicked  man  you  say — the  very,  very  wickedest  man 
that  ever  lived,  don't  you  think  if  we  tried  to  love 
him  very  much  it  might  make  a  difference  ? 

VICAR.  What  made  you  think  of  that,  Mary  ?  .  .  . 

MARY  [simply].  It's  what  you  taught  me,  uncle, 
in  your  sermons. 

[139] 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

VICAR.  /  taught  you  ?  .  .  . 

MARY.  Yes:  and,  besides,  there's  another  reason 
.  .  .  I've  been  thinking  of  the  poor  man  I  met  this 
morning. 

AUNTIE.  |    Yes  .  .  . 

VICAR,     j    What  of  him  ?  .  .  . 

MARY.  He  said  he  was  a  wicked  man,  and  at 
first  he  looked  so  dreadfully  wicked,  I  believed  him; 
but  when  I  began  to  look  at  him  closely,  and  heard 
him  talk  about  his  little  girl,  everything  seemed  dif 
ferent!  I  could  no  more  believe  him,  than  I  can 
believe  you,  uncle,  when  you  say  such  awful  things 
about  yourself!  I  believe  he  was  a  much  better 
man  than  he  ever  dreamed!  And  so  I  think  we 
might  find  my  father  just  the  same,  if  he  was  prop 
erly  loved  and  looked  after! 

VICAR  [with  determination].  Then  listen  to  me, 
Mary:  I  have  something  to  tell  you:  that  very  man 
you  spoke  to  ... 

[ROGERS  enters,  his  face  betraying 
signs  of  his  morning's  affliction.] 

ROGERS.  Beg  your  pardon,  sir;  but  .  .  . 

VICAR.  Yes,  Rogers :  what  is  it  ? 

ROGERS.  Mr.  Manson  sent  me,  sir;  it  ain't  my 
fault!  .  .  . 

VICAR.  Do  explain  yourself,  Rogers! 
[140] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE    HOUSE 

ROGERS.  Well,  sir,  it's  a  bit  orkard:  it's  ...    I 
really  don't  know  what  you'll  say,  sir,  I  don't  really  . . . 
VICAR  [impatiently].  Come,  come,  come,  what  is 
it? 

ROGERS.  It's  a  man,  sir! 

VICAR.  Well,  there's  nothing  very  extraordinary 
in  that.     Wants  to  see  me,  eh  ? 

ROGERS.  Yes,  sir;  and  what's  more,  Mr.  Manson 
told  me  to  bring  'im  in! 

VICAR.  Well,  why  don't  you  ? 
ROGERS.  'E's  mucked  up  to  the  eyes,  sir!     Bin 
down  the  drains!     It's  the  same  chap  as  come  an 
made  so  free  'ere  this  mornin  ! 

[There  is  a  general  rapturous  ex 
citement.] 

VICAR.  Praise  God!     Shew  him  in  at  once! 
ROGERS  [flabbergasted].  What!     In  'ere,  sir?  .  .  . 
VICAR.  Come,  come,  come! 

[ROGERS'S  cosmos  is  fast  slipping 
away:  he  crawls  abjectly  to  the 
door:  his  hand  on  the  knob,  he  turns 
once  more  a  face  of  bewildered  in 
quiry  upon  the  VICAR,  who  snaps  his 
fingers  impatiently.] 

ROGERS  [with  a  sickly  smile].  'E's  just  outside, 
sir. 

[HI] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE    HOUSE 

[Opening  the  door,  he  whines.] 
Oh,  do  come  in. 

[ROBERT  enters,  amply  fulfilling  the 
lad's  description.  The  latter  lags 
out,  nauseated  with  the  world.] 
[ROBERT  stands  up  stage,  in  the 
middle:  AUNTIE  and  VICAR,  down 
stage,  one  on  either  side.  MARY 
with  her  aunt.] 

ROBERT.  Can  I  be  'eard  civil  in  this  'ouse,  if  I 
speak  a  few  words  ? 

[They  make  a  movement  as  towards 
him.] 

'Old   back!     Don't   you   come   near   me!     Don't 
you  so  much  as  speak  till  I've  done!  .  .  . 

[To  Auntie  and  Vicar    respectively].     You  don't 
know  me :  you  don't  know  me  ...  Understand  ? 

There's  no  one  'ere  as  knows  oo  I  am,  excep'  one 
little  gel — 'er  over  there.     Now,  keep  quiet!  'Ere! . . . 

[MARY  goes  up  to  him.] 
Tell  'em  oo  I  am. 

MARY.  Why,  it's  my  friend — the  man  I  was  tell 
ing  you  about!     The  man  who  looks  after  the  drains! 
ROBERT.  That's    about    it:    I'm    the    drain-man, 
see?    Thought   you  might   be   mistakin'  me   for — 
summat  else,  if  you  wasn't  told.     Now  you  know. 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE    HOUSE 

[MARY'S  face,  as  she  returns,  bears 
the  first  dawn  of  an  idea.  The 
VICAR  lifts  a  hand  of  warning  to 
AUNTIE.] 

VICAR.  Go  on. 

ROBERT.  That's  what  I  come  'ere  to  talk  abaht — 
my  job.  P'r'aps  you'll  think  as  it  ain't  a  tasty 
subjic,  before  a  lot  o'  nice,  clean,  respectable  people  as 
never  'ad  anythin'  worse  on  their  fingers  than  a 
bit  of  lawn-dirt,  piayin'  crokey;  but  some  one  'as  to 
see  to  the  drains,  some  one  'as  to  clear  up  the  muck 
of  the  world!  I'm  the  one. 

An'  I'm  'ere  to  tell  you  about  it. 

AUNTIE  [involuntarily].  Oh!  .  .  . 

ROBERT.  You  don't  like  that,  ma'am  ?     'Urts  your 
feelin's,  eh  ? 

AUNTIE.  Yes;  but  not  in  the  way  you  mean. 

MARY.  But  you  know,  you  really  are  a  little  un 
pleasant! 

ROBERT.  I'm  not  'ere  to  be  pleasant,  young  leddy: 
I'm  'ere  to  edicate  you. 

VICAR.  Yes,  I  think  I  see! 

AUNTIE  [breathlessly].  Go  on:  go  on! 

ROBERT.  Well,  I  come  to  this  'ouse  this  mornin', 
I  don't  mind  ownin'  it,  in  a  rotten  bad  frame  of 
mind:  I  'ad  a  little  job  on  'and — a  job  a  bit  above  my 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

'ead,  an'  it  got  me  dahn  an'  worried  me:  yus  it  did — 
worried  me.  That  young  leddy  '11  tell  you  wot  I 
was  like  when  she  fust  saw  me:  I  looked  that  bad, 
she  thought  I  come  to  steal  summat!  Well,  p'r'aps 
I  did,  arter  all — summat  as  I  'ad  no  right  to,  summat 
as  don't  properly  belong  to  a  streaky  swine  like  me. 
That  was  when  she  fust  saw  me;  but  I  was  wuss  be 
fore  that,  I  tell  you  strite! 

MARY  [self-consciously].  What  changed  you? 

ROBERT.  A  bloke  I  met,  miss,  as  knowed  me  better 
than  I  knowed  myself.  'E  changed  me. 

AUNTIE.  \  Manson!  .  .  . 

VICAR.     >•  Manson !  .  .  . 

MARY.     )  Oh,  I  thought,  perhaps  .  .  . 

ROBERT.  Don't  know  'is  name;  'e  was  a  fair 
knock-aht —  Got  togs  on  'im  like  an  Earl's  Court 
Exhibition  .  .  .  'E  changed  me:  'e  taught  me  my  own 
mind;  'e  brought  me  back  to  my  own  job — drains. 

AUNTIE.  Yes  .  .  . 

ROBERT.  Funny  thing,  ma'am,  people's  born  dif 
ferent:  some's  born  without  noses  in  their  'eads,  worth 
speakin'  of.  I  wasn't — I  can  smell  out  a  stink  any 
where. 

AUNTIE  [fascinated].  I  am  sure  you  can.  This  is 
most  interesting! 

ROBERT  [warming].  Moment  I  stuck  my  'ead  in 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

this  'ouse,  I  knowed  as  summat  was  wrong  in  my 
line,  and  I  ses  to  myself:  Wot  oh,  'e  ain't  such  an 
awlmighty  liar,  arter  all — that's  drains!  An*  drains 
it  was,  strike  me  dead — arskin'  your  pawdon! 

MARY.  Now,  didn't  I  always  say  .  .  . 

ROBERT.  Yus,  miss,  you're  one  o'  the  nosey  uns? 
I  can  see !  Well,  soon  as  ole  Togs  got  done  with  'is 
talk,  I  got  my  smeller  dahn,  follered  up  the  scent, 
an'  afore  I  knowed  where  I  was,  I  was  in  it,  up  to 
my  eyes! — Out  there  in  the  room  with  the  blood-red 
'eap  o'  books!  Blimey,  you  never  did  see!  Muck, 
ma'am! — Just  look  at  my  'ands!  Ain't  that  pretty? 

'Owever,  I  got  there,  right  enough,  I  don't  fink! 
Fancy  I  put  that  little  bit  strite  afore  I  done! 

AUNTIE.  Oh,  this  is  too  beautiful  of  you!  .  .  . 

ROBERT  [burning  with  enthusiasm,  and  manifestly 
affected  by  her  appreciation].  Wait  a  bit:  I  got  more 
yet!  Talk  abaht  bee-utiful! — That  bit  was  on'y 
an  ash-pan!  Look  'ere,  ma'am,  I  got  the  loveliest 
Jittle  job  on  as  ever  yer  soiled  yer  'ands  in!  ... 

MARY.  Oh,  do  tell  us!  ... 

AUNTIE.)  Yes,  do!  ... 

VICAR.     J  Yes,  yes!  .  .  . 

[A    splendid    rapture    infects    them 
all.] 

ROBERT.  I  followed  up  that  drain — 7  wasn't  goiri' 
[US] 


THE   SERVANT    IN   THE   HOUSE 

to  stick  till  kingdom  come  inside  your  little  mouse- 
'ole  out  there:  No,  I  said,  Where's  this  leadin  to? 
What's  the  ' ell- an -glory  use  o9  flushin'  out  this  blarsted 
bit  of  a  sink,  with  devil-knows-wot  stinkin  cess-pool 
at  the  end  of  it!  That's  wot  I  said,  ma'am!  .  .  . 

AUNTIE.  Very  rightly!     I  see!     I  see!  ... 

ROBERT.  So  up  I  go  through  the  sludge,  puffin* 
an'  blowin'  like  a  bally  ole  cart-'orse — strooth,  it 
seemed  miles!  Talk  abaht  bee-utiful,  ma'am,  it  ud 
'a'  done  your  'eart  good,  it  would  really!  Rats!— 
'Undreds  on  em,  ma'am:  Fm  bitten  clean  through  in 
places!  'Owever,  I  pushed  my  way  through,  some- 
'ow,  'oldin'  my  nose  an  fightin'  for  my  breath,  till 
at  last  I  got  to  the  end — and  then  I  soon  saw  wot  was 
the  matter!  .  .  . 

It's  under  the  church — that's  where  it  is!  I  know 
it's  the  church,  cos  I  'eard  "The  Church's  One 
Foundation  "  on  the  orgin,  rumblin'  up  over  my  'ead! 
Well,  I  ... 

ALL.  Yes  ...  yes  ... 

AUNTIE.  Why  don't  you  go  on  ?  ... 

ROBERT.  You'd  never  guess  wot  I  saw  there,  not 
if  you  was  to  try  from  now  till  glory  'allelooyer ! . . . 

The  biggest  back-'ander,  I  ever  did  'av',  swelp 
me!  .  .  . 

[They  hang  on  his  words  expectantly.] 


THE   SERVANT    IN   THE    HOUSE 

IT  AIN'T  NO  DRAIN  AT  ALL! 

ALL  [breathlessly].  Why,  what  is  it,  then  ?  .  .  . 

ROBERT.  IT'S  A  GRIVE! 

ALL.  A  grave!  .  .  . 

ROBERT.  Yus,  one  o'  them  whoppin'  great  beer- 
vaults  as  you  shove  big  bugses'  corpses  inter!  What 
d'yer  think  o'  that  now  ? 

MARY.    \  Oh!  .  .  . 

AUNTIE.  J  Horrible!  .  .  . 

VICAR.  I  seem  to  remember  some  tradition  .  .  . 

ROBERT.  You'd  'a*  said  so  if  you'd  seen  wot  I 
seen!  Talk  abaht  corfins  an'  shrouds  an'  bones  an' 
dead  men  gone  to  rot,  they  wasn't  in  it,  wot  I  saw 
dahn  there!  Madame  Twosoes  is  a  flea-bite  to  it! 
Lord! — I  never  thought  there  could  be  such  a  lot 
o'  muck  an'  dead  things  all  in  one  place  before!  It 
was  a  fair  treat,  it  was,  I  tek  my  oath!  .  .  . 

[Rapturously].  Why — why,  it  may  cost  a  man  'is 
LIFE  to  deal  with  that  little  job! 

VICAR.  My  God!     The  thing's  impossible! 

ROBERT.  Impossible!  Means  a  bit  of  work,  that's 
all! 

VICAR.  Why,  no  one  would  ever  dare  .  .  . 

ROBERT.  Dare!  Why,  wot  d'you  think  I  come 
'ere  for  ?  .  .  . 

VICAR.  You!  .  .  . 


THE   SERVANT   IN  THE   HOUSE 

ROBERT.  Yus — makin'  myself  unpleasant  .  .  . 

VICAR.  Do  you  mean  .  .  .     Do  I  understand  .  .  . 

ROBERT.  I  mean  as  I've  found  my  place,  or  I  don't 
know  a  good  thing  when  I  see  it! 

AUNTIE.  What!  To  go  into  that  dreadful  vault, 
and  .  .  . 

ROBERT.  Why  not:  ain't  it  my  job  ? 

AUNTIE.  But  you  said — perhaps — death  .  .  . 

ROBERT.  It's  worth  it,  it's  a  lovely  bit  of  work! 

VICAR.  No,  ten  thousand  times,  no!  The  sacri 
fice  is  too  much! 

ROBERT.  You  call  that  sacrifice? — It's  fun:  not 
'arf! 

VICAR.  I  had  rather  see  the  church  itself  ,  . 

ROBERT.  What,  you  call  yourself  a  clergyman! 

VICAR.  I  call  myself  nothing:  I  am  nothing — less 
than  nothing  in  all  this  living  world! 

ROBERT.  By  God,  but  I  call  myself  suminat — I'M 
THE  DRAIN-MAN,  THAT'S  WOT  i  AM! 

VICAR  [feverishly].  You  shall  not  go!  ... 

ROBERT.  Why,  wot  is  there  to  fear?  Ain't  it 
worth  while,  to  move  away  that  load  o'  muck! 

VICAR.  The  stench — the  horror — the  darkness  .  .  . 

ROBERT.  What's  it  matter,  if  the  comrides  up 
above  'av'  light  an'  joy  an'  a  breath  of  'olesome  air 
to  sing  by  ?  ... 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

VICAR.  Hour  by  hour — dying — alone  .  .  . 

ROBERT.  The  comrides  up  in  the  spans  an  arches, 
joinin'  'ands  .  .  . 

VICAR.  Fainter  and  fainter,  below  there,  and  at 
last — an  endless  silence!  .  .  . 

ROBERT.  Tgh  in  the  dome,  the  'ammerin's  of  the 
comrides  as  'av'  climbed  aloft! 

AUNTIE.  William,  there  is  yet  one  other  way!  .  .  . 

VICAR.  Yes,  yes,  I  see:  I  see!  «  .  .  [To  ROBERT]. 
Then— you  mean  to  go  ? 

ROBERT.  By    'Eaven,  yus! 

VICAR.  Then,  by  God  and  all  the  powers  of 
grace,  you  shall  not  go  alone!  Off  with  these 
lies  and  make-believes!  Off  with  these  prisoner's 
shackles!  They  cramp,  they  stifle  me!  Freedom! 
Freedom!  This  is  no  priest's  work — it  calls  for  a 
man!  .  .  . 

[He  tears  off  his  parson's  coat  and 
collar,  casting  them  furiously  aside. 
He  rolls  up  his  sleeves.] 

Now,  if  you're  ready,  Comrade:  you  and  I  to 
gether! 

AUNTIE.  God's  might  go  with  you,  William!  Ac 
cept  him,  Christ! 

[There  is  a  silence.  Then  ROBERT 
speaks  with  slow  consideration.] 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

ROBERT.  I — don't — know.  It's  dangerous,  you 
understand! 

VICAR.  I  go  with  you. 

ROBERT.  This  ain't  psalms  an  'ymns  an'  ole  maids' 
tea-parties,  mind  you!  It  may  mean  typhoid! 

VICAR.  I  understand. 

ROBERT.  Rats. 

VICAR.  Yes. 

ROBERT.  They  don't  leave  you  alone:  they  got 
teeth,  remember — poison  in  'em! 

VICAR.  I  will  go  with  you. 

[A  slight  pause.  Then  ROBERT, 
dropping  into  a  quite  ordinary  tone, 
says.] 

ROBERT.  Then  let's  'av'  summat  to  eat,  an'  get 
along.  There's  nuthin'  more  to  say. 

MARY  [inspired].  Yes,  there  is! 

ROBERT.  What  do  you  mean,  miss  ? 

MARY.  I  mean  that  I  understand:  that  I  know 
who  you  are. 

ROBERT.  Me  ? ... 

MARY  [simply].  Yes,  you  are  my  father. 

ROBERT.  'Ow  the  everlastin'  did  you  know  that  ? 

MARY  [going  up  to  him].  Because  you  are  my 
wish  come  true:  because  you  are  brave,  because  you 
are  very  beautiful,  because  you  are  good! 


THE    SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

ROBERT.  My  little  kid!     My  little  kid! 

[They  embrace  each  other.] 

VICAR.  Robert!     [Taking  his  left  hand]. 

AUNTIE.  Brother!     [Taking  his  other  hand.] 
[They  form  a  kind  of  cross.] 
[MANSON  and  ROGERS  re-enter  with 
table-cloth,  etc.,  for  lunch.] 

MANSON.  Come  along,  Rogers.  Take  that  end. 
[They  lay  the  cloth,  as  it  were  with 
ceremonial  gravity,  MANSON  being 
at  the  upper  end  of  the  table.  They 
pay  no  heed  to  the  others,  who  watch 
them  interestedly.] 

ROBERT.  I  could  just  do  with  a  good,  square  feed. 
My  work  meks  me  'ungry. 

MANSON.  Flowers,  Rogers. 

[ROGERS  brings  vase  from  side 
board  and  places  it  on  the  VICAR'S 
side  of  the  table.  MANSON  removes 
it  to  a  more  communal  position. 
Presently  looking  up,  he  sees  the 
group  to  his  left  watching  him.] 

Oh,  beg  pardon,  sir:   perhaps  you'd  like  to  know 
— the  Bishop  of  Benares  is  here. 

VICAR.  What,    already!     Let's    have    him    in    at 
once! 


THE   SERVANT   IN   THE   HOUSE 

[MANSON  deliberates  with  the  flow 
ers  before  he  speaks.] 

MANSON.  He  is  here. 

[The  VICAR  crosses  towards  him.] 

VICAR.  What  do  you  mean  ?     Where  is  he  ? 

[MANSON  looks  at  him  over  the  flow 
ers.] 

MANSON.  Here. 

[The  VICAR  steps  back,  gazing  at 
him.  After  a  moment  he  gasps.] 

VICAR.  In  God's  name,  who  are  you  ? 

MANSON.  In  God's  Name — your  brother. 

[He  holds  out  his  hand.  The  VICAR 
takes  it,  sinking  to  his  knees  and 
sobbing  as  one  broken  yet  healed.) 
[The  curtain  descends  slowly.] 

THE     END 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
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DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
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lFeb'52£s 

*FebJi*9 

1972  4  5 

yJUIl   ^  * 

oFr'n  in    .IUL 

L      12  5  PM  4  5 

KtVl  I/    »-t/         UvL   , 

MAY     4  ICPC 

^  , 

mHT       4    '"/J 

52 

EEQ.Ua,  fffXg'IS 

I 

LD  21-100m-12,'43  (8796s) 

U.  C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


C05116535M 


M19S630 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


